Outlast Whistleblower Novelization
by Aalt-Jackal
Summary: The job came like an answered prayer to Waylon Park, and though it was only a temporary position he was promised a referral to a sister company of the Murkoff Charity Organization. But as Waylon delves into his work he is made aware that Murkoff's practices are far from ethical, and a terrible influence has corrupted the minds of his employers. Now, home seems like an illusion.
1. Chapter 1

**Still working to edit this up, not finished with writing the whole thing up but I don't know when I'll finish it. Let me know what I can change to improve this, it won't be the last time I edit this. GRoan. As always I own none of this Outlast characters, I just enjoy these novel projects. Enjoy.**

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**The Engine**

I'm thinking of math equations when some semblance of consciousness drags back into my mind. It's something I used to do when I was taking classes at Berkeley. I'd get so boggled with numbers, from morning to night. I'd stare at the same equation for hours until I realized I was too exhausted for this nonsense, and lay my head down to sleep, drooling all over my textbook. At some unholy hour of the night I might chance the climb to my top bunk without waking my roommate, or climb in bed with him, and he'd make the climb to my top bunk. Most cases I'd stay in my uncomfortable and cramped chair until I was roused, my head throbbing and a knot in my spine from the improper sleeping technique. Such good memories. So dull and pleasant. Safe.

My hand twitches against the cold floor, the cement, and my back aches. Oh, how it aches. My head throbs as if I just threw back two bottles of hard liquor, a feat I'm sure would kill me outright but I'm certain the sensation must be equivalent. I can't get it in me to move, it hurts too much to try and focus, decide what has happened. Something has happened, hasn't it? In a panic, I realize I can't remember! The notion sends a swell of buzzing through my mind, as I try and decide. I try and decide the cube of sixty-four. It's four. Four people. Four.

Accident. I've been in some sort of accident. Haven't I? That's the answer. I took my eyes off the road for a second. A second was all it took. That's what they always say. One second can ruin a lifetime. Irreversible damage. Oh god, I was hurt. I—

Then I remember. That history was over, done. I moved on. There were bills to pay, you needed money to live on. Then the letter, a job. This would fix everything. I would do the work, get paid, and move on. Survive. The job….

The work.

_Oh god. What have I done?_

I lose consciousness for some time longer. I keep track by running numbers. The script. I remember running script, waiting impatiently for the lines to load. I was cutting it close, I didn't normally work like this. I knew something was wrong while I was seated there, trying to focus, too distracted. It was an easy fix.

"_Are you happy, Mr. Park?_"

"Yes I'm happy," I wanted to say. "Can't you see this big grin slapped on my face?" But I didn't say that. I kept my mouth shut as I worked. My cheesy sweeter vest damp with sweat because I was anxious and in a hurry. Too much that I was botching up the job, not thinking about what I was doing. Just going through the motions, plugging in commands without reading the errors. I was better than this, I was just being careless. That's what got me. I wasn't thinking about the people around me, the hints they dropped. They were way ahead of me. I wasn't paying attention, wasn't reading the signs. How stupid could I have been? I was so intent on getting the job done, I didn't stop to think. I should have stopped. There was so much I should have done, but didn't. So many things I should have said, but put it all off. Too literal. My problem was I was too literal.

I jerk a bit when I come to, my eyes opening a crack. White light blinded me. I know I'm not wearing my glasses, I don't where they've gone. I can't make out my surroundings, just blurs and shapes. I needed them to read, for the little details. But it's hard to make out what I'm seeing. Was I even awake? I take a short breath and choke on the harsh air. It's not cold, but it wants to be. The air has a strange quality, sterile but alive with vibrations. I remember those sensations pulsing through my skin the first time I set foot on Mount Massive's soil. The recollection sent a tremor down my spine, and I felt sick to my gut. It might've been caused by the vertigo, as I try an open my eyes to see. Screens. Two sets of six, twelve in all. That smell again, as I swallow the saliva that gathered at the back of my throat. I don't want to get up, to think about mobility. I just want to lie here and forget about the world, about the strange sounds moving around me. Equipment. Do they have equipment?

I've been in an accident. I'm not dressed in my usual warm clothing, to combat this merciless cold that haunts the bone white corridors. I don't know what I'm in, it feels like a scrubs. The important detail, it's not mine. How many times do I need to remind myself, I've not been in an accident. It's old history. I want to forget. I want to leave it behind. I want to leave so much behind. But I'm stuck in this loop, I won't stop tumbling back into it. Reminds me too much.

I feel it now. The peculiar sense of vulnerability that rolls through me. I remember it well. I focus more on the screens. Twelve. I don't recall there meaning, but their presence feels invasive. The screens are dangerous somehow, someone had explained why. It was a conversation during breakfast that I overheard. You watch them too long, some people go blind. I try and make a sound as I turn my eyes off them, but my throat is suddenly dry. I hear movement, soft shoes moving over cement and my eyes locate a blue shape gliding towards me. I don't recognize him. I might, but I don't. The tall figure stands over me for but a second, and it's in that length of time that I conclude that mobility is not yet available. I try and shut my eyes to blot out the world, the screens, but I'm being lifted up.

Strong hands mold around my chest, the brief impulse to choke or dry heave over his shoulder passes, as I'm pitched forward. Thankfully. I try and lift an arm up to shove him off, but the weak limb only fumbles about at his backside as the room spins away. I'm barely holding on, the desire to sleep and escape what is happening is too strong. Even when I'm thrown back into a hard, cold chair, I can't shove it into my sense of self-preservation to give a fuck. My head rolls to the side groggily and my eyelids drop, the room fading back to dark. Back to sleep and dreams, and obscure math equations with no meaning.

I manage to open one eye and tilt my head, as a blue arm crosses into view. Thick black gloves extend up to the elbow and stop there. They look expensive. They are also tightening sharp little loops over my wrists, so tight they bite into my skin. I whimper as they adjust the straps just a little more, the mechanism clicks somewhere far from my ears. I open my other eye, startled by the face leaning over. A mask. The man is dressed head to toe in a full body, blue smock. He has an associate dressed the same, but wearing the dark black gloves and a heavy respirator over his face. I don't want to think about what they're doing.

The first man, the one that lifted me, shoves my bare foot back into a hard brace. He hurts my heel when it collides with the metal back, and I listen to the soft click as the latch constricts, painfully around my ankle. I try to pull my arm back, to push him away, but I've already forgotten my hands are secured tight. The straps cutting into my wrists hurt, and I make another meager sound in my throat. All I can think now is I want out. I want out so bad, it hurts.

But he wouldn't let me go.

I focused between the two figures, the man that resembles an insect, and the man wearing only blue smocks. Hard lines define his face, and there's… something strange in his eyes. Something I can't describe. It's not in my nature to stare people in the eye, but I can't help it. I have no escape.

The man in the respirator reaches over my head, and I try to duck forward. But, he presses his hand over my forehead and pushes my head back into another painful contraption. He tightens a loop over my feverish brow, and the device has it fixed to where my head is locked back and I have only the twelve screens within my peripheral. I'm gazing at them as my eyes droop, I don't want to think about it. About the blindness caused, seizures, the rumors that spread like wild fire. I shouldn't have snooped. There was so much I shouldn't have done. The nausea returns, and I try to focus on the little camera on the tripod, off to the side. If I can lock on that, I can watch it. I think I'm going to pass out or throw up, maybe both.

"Open those eyes," the voice says.

I recognize it. Or I don't. The man in blue leans over, there's an odd smirk pressed in his lips. My eyes move to his face slowly, as he lowers into my line of sight. The other man with the respirator moves away, I don't care. As far as I'm concerned, he no longer exists. The man before me continues to speak, "You don't have to wake up, but open your eyes." I don't care for what he says, it doesn't make sense. It would mean the world to me if he just shut the hell up and let me rest.

I let my eyes slip shut, my brain already diving into the blissful zone of nothing. I make a mental promise I'll look later, if I felt like it.

Pain accompanied by a loud sound causes my eyes to snap open, my focus fully on him now. I take a sharp breath as the stinging works through my cheek, my eyes watered. Did he…. He just.

"What's the matter?" he asked. His eyes glanced over my head, checking the restraints. "Somebody hit you?" His eyes. There was something in his eyes. Lustful, was this lust I was seeing? My heart began beating in my chest, so hard I could feel it press into the thin shirt I wore. The rumors. I remember the rumors about some of the people. "Here. Let me help."

They were only rumors at the time. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to see. All this time, blind. Now, I couldn't get away.

I didn't know what to expect, but the way he spoke. That carnal tone he took, made me want to squirm away.

He leaned forward and I froze, my jaw locked and finger tips digging into the hard armrests of the chair I was glued to. I wanted to crawl away, make pitiful little sounds as I moved to the furthest corner of the room. Somewhere I could put my back, protect my body. I felt his hot breath on my cheek, and he paused for a moment moaning softly. My jaw _quivered_, but somehow my teeth were locked so tight my throat ached. I was now wide awake. He crept up my face, making wet hungry sounds right in my ear. He wasn't human. My throat tightened and my toes dug into the cold floor, I could have scrapped all the skin off my toes and I wouldn't give a damn. Anything to set my mind away from…. He finished, trailing his tongue along the edge of my brow leaving a cold, wet patch on my cheek. My eyes remain fixed on him as he slowly rocked back, tongue still visible between his lips as he watched me. Smug pleasure thick in his eyes.

I wanted to appear disgusted, or outraged. But honestly I felt like a child. A cold whimpering, defenseless child, lost in this place I had thought I'd known. It was all over my face, I knew. It was impossible for me to look anything but broken and pathetic, tears in my eyes, saliva drying on my cheek. And this guy, fueling his erotic ego to break another man. I want to go home.

I wasn't paying attention, but sometime, somewhere ago soft alerts began beeping. Minor sounds I couldn't be bothered with, while the man was fixated on my face. Until a soft voice spoke up. "Hey Andrew, you getting these alerts?" It only meant I wasn't alone in this room. Even if I was surrounded, I wouldn't feel safe. Not with him there, staring at me.

"Kinda busy here," Andrew said. I nearly mumbled something pathetic as the dominating sneer melted from his face, and became something almost human as he turned to address the speaker.

"It sounds like real trouble," said the other, timid. He was afraid of Andrew. But Andrew had returned his cruel gaze to me, concentrating on something he wanted to see in my eyes. I couldn't do anything but stare back. "At the Engine," the voice went on, while Andrew's focus was redirected. "They said Hope made a lateral ascension."

At Andrew's back the screens flashed to life, screeching with twisted images. I didn't look at them, the twelve screens were forgotten while Andrew was in my line of sight.

"Billy Hope," Andrew snapped. He turned to the speaker, and I wanted to envision the other man cringing under his gaze. I didn't want to feel like the only one here. "Shit. And they're not happy about it?"

"No," the voice answered. There was a brief pause, as Andrew mulled over what he was told. He turned away setting his chin on his knuckles, and I felt the tension flow from my wrists. My eyes drifted off him to view the screens, beyond his shoulder. I blinked against the pulsing light, the way they danced and quivered in black and white. That was… oh no.

Where was I? No! Oh god, NO!

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit," Andrew growled. He brushed by my shoulder, but he had faded from my concern. I couldn't take my eyes off the screens, the screen. Synchronized into a single broadcast. "Come on."

There was no sound. No brutal slam of a door to announce their departure, no indication they had left at all save for the hasty and displeased bark of Andrew as he had stepped from my line of sight. To be honest, I didn't give a fuck. I wasn't looking for them, I was staring at the screen and the odd pulse of figures and shapes it formed. I have no conception of how long I sat there, absorbing what was shown. What felt like minutes began to draw, spiraling back into seconds. How did this happen? Why was this happening?

I had an accident.

That's all my mind would supply. I drag my arm against the restraint, a little more, and a little more. The binding holds, my only success are the marks I don't doubt are now branded in my skin. It doesn't stop me from trying.

It starts in the back of my head. The car. Or was it a truck? Owned a car first, we owned a car. No, it was always a truck. I'm seeing things in the Rorschach's, flashing, blinding, moving. I want to see things, familiar things. Images to remind me of home. Was I supposed to see something? A gate, an elevator. Take it down to the lab. REMs, scans. I wasn't familiar with the medical field, but I had seen an X-Ray of my skull before, after… it was after the accident I decided. That accident. I say something strange, murmured my name. After a short span I realized I was muttering to myself, trying to remind my head of something. What is happening? What is happening? I'm seeing things leap off the screens, moving around my head. I want to look away. I was going to focus on something, but I can't find the point I had set on. Lock on, focus. Keep away from the Engine. Away from the Engine. No, was I trying to come up with a logarithm to salvage my mind?

Math equations. Algorithms. Stuff I studied but it was beyond me, this chemical engineering bull crap they thought could make mortals into gods. It was all theories and in part, superstitions. Rumors. They were always telling ghost stories around lunch time, the highlight of the day when break rolled around. I was seeing trays now, my mind suggested flat trays swimming past the screen. Then skulls, then flowers, then ink blot tests. Ribbons. Gates. Elevators. Trucks. How long had it been? Not since I was sat down….

How long had I been here? Adverse… effects. People saw shapes, when you were drowsy enough. Worked enough late hours into the dawn, or just had terrible sleeping habits. I did. But I never. No, I did. But some of the people, they saw. They saw. They saw. They saw.

A high shriek filled the room. It was loud enough to drill through my ears and burn my throat. They were in a way beautiful, but morbid. The flowers slumped into skulls, then back into ribbons. It didn't take me long to realize the noise was me, I was screaming at the top of my lungs. I tried to jerk out of my chair, my ankles and wrists rubbing hard at their binds. I thought there were people with me, more men in scrubs staring at me. I groaned and whined, why wouldn't they help me? Why couldn't they help me!

The room began to distort. The walls bled with the inkblots, wet gray forms crawling from open wounds that splint in the walls. I couldn't make out where they came from, if it was real or not. No. I was dreaming. I was asleep, dreaming. It's a nightmare, I'll wake up when it's too much. Everything will be all right.

The shapes crept closer, thick ribbons tightening over my eyes and neck. A wet sensation moved from my forehead to the back of my neck. Then the pain. Piercing pain drilling through my spin and out my chin. I felt a pressure on my thigh and when I looked, there was someone leaning over me talking about the cube of eight. Numbers in my head. Think of numbers.

My throat was raw from shrieking, the horrible sound bounced throughout the room perpetually. I just want it to end. Stop. I try to shut my mouth, cease my horrible racket. But I can't move. I sit propped in the chair like a puppet, absorbing the static that burns through my mind. Somehow it all clicks, my brain flat lines and I feel nothing. Not the room, or the images. I see nothing but swirls and translucent membranes stretching. I'm somewhere far away. A distant memory. It's not a happy one.

The truck. The accident. The job.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Job**

There was this joke that got carried around Mount Massive, but its exact origins were unknown. These cramped little offices and closets dotted the facility, mostly on the upper floors in the actual 'asylum.' Spend an evening searching through the rooms, and you'd stumble upon a few or a lot from staff, usually a technician or low ranking security operative just hiding out.

The upper division doctors and researchers were the ones that would collaborate after hours, and seized the quiet spaces to go over notes; discussing matters of the Engine and chemical rates, or the condition of an assigned subject. Technicians, like myself, didn't get bothered too much by Murkoff stiffs roaming around, or the shady security. As long as we were available during shift and did our work well, Murkoff liked us, they liked us a lot.

I have to emphasize the A LOT description. High ranking staff could get away with just about anything while off the clock. Anything. One guy, a doctor that worked in autopsy, joked that you could even commit murder, so long as it didn't inconvenience the company's profits. There was only a small handful of people that would dredge up that joke. They were the sort that had the capacity to creep you out, and you never wanted to be in the same room alone with them.

A few colleagues that were the closest sort of people I could describe as 'friends,' would affectionately direct security my way as 'domain obscura.' I was hard to find, and just as difficult to page over the intercom one I was buried in work. Staff with Level one clearance was more on board with screwing around with security, if the agent was seeking someone specific and they used the employee ID number.

"Oh, you mean Records closet. He's over in the Records closet." And the guard would give them about two seconds, before he'd demand them to show exactly where this particular 'Records closet' was hiding.

Everyone on security was a complete prick.

It was not difficult to find a vacant storage closet to work, alone, in. My hands tremble as I tapped at the keypad; I was making errors and erasing the hasty patch I was writing up. I took some precious time to rub the shakiness out of my fingers, and set my hands back over the laptops keypad. Part of the problem was that this wasn't my personal computer, and I had to search for the command prompt.

Murkoff prohibited personal devices such as iPhones, laptops, anything that could get a network signal. Instead, we could read, submit letters to the postal service, or watch Murkoff approved televised programs. The facility provided commune computers that were synchronized on a connection throughout Mount Massive's isolated networks, but remained segregated from outer signals. This wouldn't be enough to prevent a few technicians from bypassing the restriction and roaming a bit beyond the dome, but violators of these rules would receive harsh repercussions.

When I first signed up for the Technical Division officially, I was given a pile of papers that restricted many of my personal freedoms; the bulk of these freedoms were the sort of which I had taken for granted prior to when Murkoff made contact with me. The content of these documents stressed that I understood all of my obligations and swore me silence, and touched lightly over the content of work I would be involved in. I was expected to fulfill my duty as technical support until I was terminated or until my contract with Murkoff's Psychiatrics expired. I sensed these sentences stretched further than what could be expressed in ink and paper, but I was assured that all was in good order. 'Mandatory precautions' they had called it. I had no idea what my work would consist of.

The doctors were not therapists, they were scientists. I became aware all too soon of what conducted Murkoffs motivations, and that the company's actions were immoral, wrong, and I'd go as far to say evil. And what I was doing… The people I worked with, they promised me this was helping.

Helping.

I was somehow HELPING these people that were dragged in here? What was being done to them… they had every right to fight out. The things the doctors were doing to them; referred to them with casual indifference, identified the people – the patients – by a set of serial numbers. No… no, I don't know what Murkoff was doing, but it was not charitable. It was punishment! No one deserved this. No one. No matter what they did.

I took a sip from the large mug I had. The side said Coffee, but I'd always been partial to tea. Murkoff company mugs. Everyone just sort of left them sitting around, and some of the desperate few would finish off what might be the remains of a lukewarm beverage. People around here lost themselves. Or, they wanted to get so sick they could call in. I've covered for a few of those guys.

My eyes trailed off the laptop, and scanned around the tight quarters I had set up shop in. The utility closet had no light beyond the gate, in the very back room where desk was that I sat at. A bulb blazed unrestrained in the shelved corridor, but very little of that light found its way past the chain-link fence. The fence housed backup breakers for an electrical grid of the sub lab, and some of the major software components for the Morphogenic Engine, but the gate was never kept locked.

I thought I heard someone shuffling around, and I stare off into the far reach of the closet at my backside. There is no evidence of a presence, and I conclude it's just the acoustics of the rock walls repelling the sounds I generate as I move. This assured me that if someone did come in I'd hear them, and have a chance to put the laptop away while looking casual. No one pried excessively if someone wanted to be left alone, and I'd heard rumors about undisclosed favors being passes between staff and the technicians. It was usually a public announcement via intercom about deviating from the Murkoff Psychiatrics network, a mild deterrent and a dock in our pay checks. It let us know that Murkoff was watching.

I returned to the laptop and resumed through the command prompts, it was faster for me than clicking icons. I wasn't assigned a company laptop, but a colleague let me borrow his for the day. I knew what to do to set up my bridge off the grid, but I wasn't any less tense about it. Had to work fast once the connection was made, sign in to my mutemail and go through the security twenty-twenty. I could appreciate the precautions and everything, but did the site not understand I had a very thin wedge of time to work within? Nine dollars a month, plus tax. None of that was on a card. I had a friend set me up, after Murkoff handed over the first stack of contracts.

There was a name in the system I had my eye on for a while. I contacted a few others, sent out messages when I had the chance; there were close calls, incomplete messages that likely fell into the void of cyberspace and junk mail. I have no idea if the viable emails made it to their intended recipients, or if the people even gave a damn. I would continue to do what I could, for as long as I was a witness. This guy I picked up, his track record looked shaky but potent.

A final line of command prompts, and my patch was secure. The domain code was encrypted, and the best I could manage given the time constraints. I needed to compose something for the email. I adjust my glasses, and again check over my shoulder toward the breakers on the far side of the room. There was nothing; no prying eyes, no cameras lurking, no shadows out of place. I was alone. The soft twitters of the Engines hardware chirped with each corrupt script weeded out. I turn back to the laptops generic amber, golden sunset, and open the new letter. I had the email address memorized, but what should I say?

"You don't know me, have to make this quick." That was good, I guess. I began typing, my fingers become steadily faster as I lip read the note back. "They might be monitoring." If someone was watching, all that they'd get to see would be the encryption, and a jumble of numbers and letters. Whitenoise I sometimes called it. I did test runs before I began the actual run, visiting the restricted sights and making a 'ruckus.' Pay was docked, but no one had theories to the culprit. I took it easy for a few days.

I typed in two weeks, but didn't bother to go back and fix it. The automatic spell correction kept me from looking like a complete fool, but the note warns early I'm not going to revise this until dawn. Caps lock Murkoff, because I don't need that autocorrected.

I look up, certain I've heard something. Just the intercom, security looking for someone catching a nap. I roll my shoulders and return to typing, I needed to get this done and sent. "…but seriously, fuck those guys." I wasn't heavy on profanity, but in this context it seemed appropriate. As always I elect to be as vague with the details of my concerns as I can, only because what I have to reveal is too farfetched to be credible. I don't have time to explain the situation, or fabricate something that sounds believable without a level of deceit coming across. What I saw was terrible, and I had no method to stop it. Murkoff was to potent to get involved with.

I drew back from the cheerful glean of the screen to reread. Was I missing anything, anything to promote my case? I rub at my knuckles and ease out some of the chill, pop the joints, then another sip from my stale tea. Ugh.

This is enough, there's nothing else I can slip in to make the case more appealing. I glance back over my shoulder, at the metal gate and padlock left open. It should be fine, I haven't been away too long. As I spin back, I take note of my leg bouncing anxiously under my palm. Jeez, what a bad habit. I tried willing my leg to stop and it worked for a second, but my knee goes back to anxious bobbing. Just forget it. Get the letter composed, then I could get some rest.

"It needs to be exposed." I practically pronounced each syllable of that final line. Another nervous tick I developed; cracking my knuckles until the joints ached. At times I realize I'm doing it, but still did it. I was high strung, like all the other people tied up in this place. Jumping at shadows.

This wasn't normal behavior for a software consultant, or any sane person for that matter. I've seen a couple of security haunting the halls, getting a little twitchy with the more sleep they lost. No one with Level three clearance slept well, and staff would snap at each other for the weakest reasons; even during meal breaks when we should be in a lighter mood. We were just a bunch of high strung, jumpy people. I overheard from a few of the higher up researchers that the Project had reached a plateau, but made no definite progress in the past month. That could be a reasonable reason for the tension, but it didn't strike me as normal. It wasn't getting any better around here.

I moved the cursor to the Send button, but hesitated. Would this guy even show up? Did I want him too? So far my efforts had been in vain. Eventually, someone would take the bait. I couldn't be sure someone already did. I thought they did but, I hope to god I was wrong. Just another patient. That's all I ever thought of. I was being paranoid.

I clicked the Send icon and watched the annoying little load icon appear. A little hour glass. Who still used—

"Who's in here?"

The door at the rooms front creaked in its hinges. I jerked to the side and strain to peer through the small gap in the shelves, computer hardware and old radio CBs obscure clear sight of the door. Someone couldn't be looking for me already. Most likely a curious technician announcing his arrival.

I swing back to the laptops bright screen, and hit the delete button. Damnit! I already hit the Send button! I'd have better luck hitting Num Lock, or Alt-Delete. I settle with shutting the computer down, closing the laptop and shove it away. I spun around on the computer chair and watched the open gate. I wait for a long time, but no one enters. The room remains silent, I don't hear the door shut; it's only the computer software puffing hot vapor, and myself.

I wrap my arms around my midsection and stand. I'm feeling a little silly with my initial panic. Someone must've been looking for me, and when they didn't see me they went elsewhere. I scoot along the interface wall filled with tiny, gleaming lights, and approach the opening of the gate. As I peer over the shelf's edge, a figure at the door whirls back. He's dressed casual; white collared shirt, blue slacks, and at the base of his neck I could see the edge of his thermal undershirt.

"Park?" He stops just outside the door and tilts his head, as if he didn't expect me to be here at all. Or maybe he didn't know my face matched that named. "They've paged for you three times already." As he said this, he gestured off with a thumb. "There's something urgent at the engine."

I hesitate when I reach the doorway, and him. The Engine. The Morphogenic Engine. I repeat it in my head a few times. I hate the way it sounds.

"I… must not have heard." My voice trails off as the intercom echoes through the hall, for what must be the fourth time in five minutes.

"Waylon Park, employee one-four-six-six, report to the Morphogenic Engine monitoring immediately."

I sigh, and exit the room. But I make sure to shut the door behind me.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he asks. He straightens up and crosses his arms over his chest. "I thought you were just a software guy."

I shrugged, but didn't extend on the conversation. He seemed appeased by this, and let me go without an explanation. He knew me but I didn't recognize him. He might've come down from the top floor and wouldn't be around for much longer. If I saw him again, I'd make it a point to get his name.

The entirety of the sub levels twisting corridors was chiseled natural stone, from the ceiling to the polished, flat floors. In some sections, such as the corridor I stood in, had areas built over with glossed cinderblock. A few steel doors dotted the walls on either side, most advertise their unwavering message Restricted Area, and were locked with a magnet card reader. Yellow caution tape lay beside short rails set on the floor, barricades to keep the numerous trollies of supplies from scrapping walls and upsetting their cargo.

I adjust my glasses, but recall their not my tinted pair. I could afford to remove them until I reached the Morphogenic wing, but I decide against that. I'm in a hurry and don't need to be seen, fumbling around when I enter the chamber.

Down the hall, two researchers stand off to the side of the hall muttering in conversation. Idly, I listen as I move by to the Plexiglass at the corridors end.

"Parts per million, yeah. But those are precursors to precursors. I'm worried about losing antiapoptotics." Neither one looks human, garbed in protective clothing and respirators. They barely sound human, what they're saying skims over the English language.

"One ninety isn't bad. The Doctor was predicting assembly by one fifty."

I slow my steps when the automatic doors glide open. Advanced research. It was a rare day to see these guys out of hardware. Blue was their uniform color, blue and gray. And custom respirators, and specialized shielding goggles for their eyes. There was this fear of contamination, and it revolved around the level of Security Clearance and Research these people worked in. I wasn't privy to what this all consisted of, but I knew enough. It gave me the chills.

"We're not being given enough information to trust Wernicke's predictions." I had heard about this Dr. Wernicke, but never actually saw the resident doctor. I never asked about him, since only the doctors ever mentioned him, and maybe the rare occasion that security was on about something. There was a lot of action happening in the background, which I was fine having nothing to do with.

"He's been right so far." They continued debating. I couldn't distinguish one voice from the other.

"I just want to know we're inventing something other than shiny new cancers." I stepped fully into the next room, and the doors wisped shut at my back. I catch the last section of the conversation about stress and capillaries, and decide I'm better off not knowing.

The room is a small security checkpoint, and holding chamber for some supplies – such as the canisters on the trolley in the opposite corner – awaiting use. Polygon sections are marked off by yellow tape, in one perimeter to my left sits a desk with a lone monitor, and one of security seated behind the screen. I glimpse over the side of the room, and spy a second security agent stationed in front of a pair of doors at the far wall; he looks bored, and his focus is set on the man at the computer.

"You're Waylon Park, aren't you?" the seated agent incited. I'm surprised he recognized me, but it's more likely he has my image on the halls camera feed.

"Yeah." I hasten to the set of doors on the opposite wall. I didn't need to get wrapped up in explanations. As if control was listening, the intercom echoed out once more, requesting my presence in the Morphogenic lab. That was, how many times now?

"Why weren't you answering the page?" he pried, with a sideways glance my way. As if I have five minutes to spare, and should remind him how no one goes by employee identification numbers. "I'll tell them you're coming."

"Thank you," I murmured. I slipped around the door and pulled it shut at my back.

"How about you?" Another pair of researchers, preening through notes. The one with a clipboard gave pause and checked my way, but otherwise ignored my appearance. I thought I knew him by name, but dressed as he was I wouldn't bother with a passing greeting. They were idle but preoccupied.

"Going back to Leadville to pick up Jane, then we're heading out to the lake," the other replied.

"That sounds all right."

Even as I moved past them, it was impossible to discern which one was speaking. The way their voices hit the odd, jagged stone that surrounded us, amplified the sounds in disconcerting patterns. The other one stood overseeing his partner, and stood with his arms crossed. They passed the clipboard between them, and he began writing quickly.

"I didn't think I'd miss her this much. It's the patients," he went on. "You start to realize they haven't seen a woman or a child in… shit, years now. Right?"

"How long's it been since you're seen Jane?" his voice is softer, sympathetic. I pause before the corridor turns and kneel down to tie my shoe.

"Three weeks now?"

He scoffed behind his mask and glanced up from the clipboard. "That's nothing."

I had to redo my shoelace after I knotted it wrong. They sometimes said it was hard when women were on Mount Massives soil, but now it was unbearable. Some say these conditions were difficult to adjust to during the first few weeks, especially if you had someone waiting for you. Even prisons had the possibility of one woman on duty, or you could leave at the end of the day and that would be it. We were isolated up in the Mountains of Colorado, and most the people were stuck in residence, and prohibited from outside contact. We couldn't speak to anyone outside the facility or go anywhere. I've heard of a few guys that have been on residence for more than half a year. Introverts, eccentrics. Maybe I was categorizing them, but I'd seen one of them occasionally during breakfast and they always had this ghostly detached expression. None of them were much for talk.

"You serious," he asked, after the other man's scoff. "You got a girlfriend of something?"

"I'm married." The marking made on the paper and clipboard was audible as he spoke.

"How long since you seen her?"

"Honestly?" The scratching of audible writing paused. "I'm not even sure."

I picked myself up and proceeded around the chiseled bend in the corridor, above a lamp cast shards of glittering slates along the walls. At the halls end was another security operative poised at the edge of the built in cinderblock walls, he stood with his heel at the edge of the yellow stripe of caution tape. Fixed high up on the polished brick wall, was a rotating camera charged with capturing all activity that occurred before the thick blast doors. The guard gestured to me as I approached:

"Christ, Waylon," he hissed. "Hurry up, they're waiting on you." I had a tense moment to dwell if maybe he had seen me further down the hall tying my shoe over and over? I didn't lose time over the assumption, and hurried through when the guard stepped aside.

He said something else, but it was lost in the thick groan of the blast doors grinding open. Warm air slipped over my neck and face; a vivid contrast to the cool sterility of the corridors. It was then that I realized how chilled my hands were, and I nervously fumbled with my knuckles and tried popping the joints.

The room within was full of activity, all of it visible with a glance. Men moved in slow motion, minds paced at two millionths of words a second, thirty syllables every two point nine seconds. Even without the Morphogenic Engine – the bulbous machine on the other side of the windows – the heat expelled from the massive computer terminals and software components was erratic. A wild snake coiled with current, winding and rubbing over itself, while scales popped off its convoluted muscles.

I adjusted my glasses as I stepped inside. It was a short enclosed walkway into the main chamber. The walls of the entry struggled to pump a meager amount of recycled air into the entire room, while fans rattled and drew the heated air out. Half the flooring was grated and assisted with airflow, but all of these architectural benefits hardly made the chamber bearable. Buried hundreds of feet underground in frosted limestone, most of us clothed in long sleeve shirts or thermals to ward of hypothermia. Then there was this place. I was once told hell could be a beautiful place.

The ceiling of the interior chamber was carved out and extended high overhead, it was reinforced with thick metal beams intermixed with vents, and pipes running the length of the rooms walls. Through the Plexiglas, I could barely make out the shape hovering in the mist. The tri-heptagon surface of metal and lights, steam huffed through the spaces in its numerous panels. Cables as thick as my arms ran from the top of this contraption, and descended deep down somewhere, out of sight among the floors and walls. The chiseled walls that encircled the enormity of the chamber had at one time been white, but now they were an ugly gray, almost black; as though the walls of the mountainous interior were becoming a chard husk of computer hardware, like the people that were dragged in here for the treatment.

Behind the Plexiglas, away from the heat of the machine, safe from its smoldering anger, the technicians and doctors work, bent over long countertops lined with screens and papers. One or two bodies huddled before the sharp flicker of a screen, one dressed in a spotless coat, the other sporting dark blues. In the limited light of the room, some of these people seemed to meld into the vibrating equipment stuffed into the walls, as if they had always been here – eyes sunken and dark, brows scarred by thoughtful lines, dangerous thoughts tugging into their skin. I stopped at the threshold staring, the air in my lungs stale.

"Ah, Park." The first technician on the side said. He looked up from the clipboard he held, pen in hand. His face buried in goggles and a respirator. If he hadn't addressed me by name, I would have kept walking. "You're cutting it close, next patient's incoming and the Arterial Spin's still dark. We need you at the front."

Patient. They're bringing a patient in. God damnit. I flexed my hands beside my legs, and felt the skin roll over my tendons and bone. Did they do this on purpose? No. I should've been paying attention, they paged me five times. I was busy. They didn't like excuses, but they wanted results, and they wanted them now.

The interior room was filled with terminals and screens, each and all dedicated to the Engine. The Morphogenic Engine. On one side of the room, the bulk of technology was reserved for the functions and readings, communications were linked directly to those on the ground floor at the contraptions base. On the far side, hardware was interwoven and cross connected over several networks; software articulated to work as a mediator of the Engine, and dedicated to monitor the people that were brought through for treatment. Screens displayed what I recognized as thermal imaging, PET scans, electron microscopes, and an assortment of over readings I knew no name for. I didn't think there could be an accurate medical term devised yet, for half of the systems they utilized in this room. They called it scientific breakthrough, the cutting edge of technology and the advancements in medicine, psychosis.

I got the shivers when I thought about it.

I glanced at the guard beside a desk as I moved to the room's front. He wasn't pressed up against the desks, or out of the way for that matter. He stood in the center of the walkway, and I had to creep by him. He followed my movement with his eyes. I hated when they did that, but what else did they have to do around here?

"From yesterday we've got one at thirteen twenty-one oh-five. Another at seventeen forty-four thirty-one. And a big one at nineteen thirty eight oh-two." These were the physicians at the side, going through the patients previous history, I think. Spikes of something. Dreams. They were always going on about dreams, and I would sometimes catch chatter about how they wanted the patients to see something. Or, I'd get the vibe they wanted them to experience something. It was always casual conversation, even during work like this.

"Let's see… log has the first two as guided dreams. Classified as: childhood, sexual with reptile imagery."

I stood behind the guys at the front terminal, working over the screens and muttering. I didn't catch a name. I was trying to follow the medical/technical terms that they used, put it together later. Another technician was already on scene, working beneath the desk to the side of the room. He had the side of a sub tower open, and a panel in the floor removed; he was working to replace wires and held an small laptop on his knees.

Beyond the window, beneath the Engine, I could see more of the physicians, and another tech guy dressed in blue and wearing a tie, he fiddles with the terminal. The collective group of doctors loiters around one of the spherical pods, wires and thick tubes hung from its side. Only the cables that went into the capsules base and went to the wall, were for the computers readings, anything not yet connected soon would be.

"Ah, for fuck's sake. They've got Gluskin out of his cell." He wore blue smocks and sounded unimpressed. He spoke with another technical, dressed in lab coat and smocks. This fellow, Steve, he and I have worked beside the other on and off, but hadn't exchanged names formally. I didn't like him, but the feeling was mutual. "Page him again, we need this Park guy in here now. Tell him he's got fifteen seconds to keep his job."

Right, I needed to fix this. Without a word I slipped over to the quiet desktop to the right, reserved for me and already prepped for C++. They had two monitors set up for convenience, but for me the second screen only served as a distraction. The main monitor displayed large red words:

SYSTEM ERROR CODE 16

Along with the code, malfunctions and troubleshoot commands were already in a list of recommendations. This would work if the whole damn system wasn't custom built, and programmed by a mathematical moron that still used UNIX.

This wouldn't take long. I had to get back, make sure the laptop did shut down. It would still have the tether network code I used, and I needed to erase that browser history and scrub the pathway. Tedious, but easy enough.

"Park. Finally. Where have you been?" I didn't answer, just gave a wave over my shoulder. I pulled the keyboard over, and grimaced. Spit and frustration. That's what I always imagine these commune keyboards smelled like. I didn't like public keyboards, I didn't even like going to the library to fill out applications. I pressed my fingers onto the keys and began typing, quickly. "The Functional Imaging interface isn't talking to the ASL. We've got a patient thirty seconds out and we're blind inside his head."

"I'll hurry then," I said. Just to make him happy, and defuse the irritation a bit. I put in the long code, requested a full read up of the program. I think I made a patch for this the day before. I wouldn't be surprised if another techy came through and botched up the whole system. If that's the problem, then I could just recode and resubmit the working patch.

A voice strained through a respirator, with that odd metallic ring in it. He was further away, on the other side of my supervisor. "I could call in to the chamber, ask them to delay… ?" Oh please, don't do that. Are you stupid?

"No," Steve denied. And I let out a small sigh. Good. "I don't need another performance evaluation." He went on, "Mr. Park here is going to have us up and running before we even know it. Right, Mr. Park?"

"Yehh," I fumbled. The long script C+ was already loading up and I scanned through some of the zip codes as they loaded. It was irrelevant jargon, you couldn't get anything from it, but it helped pass the time. Script. Script. Script.

The error note was bright crimson, and I fixed my glasses to help alleviate the awful color coupled with the poor lighting. I got that the facility was saving power where it could and that most these researchers didn't get out that often to see the sun; but some of us still needed some light in order to make out the tiny text on the screen. I tapped my finger on the keyboard impatiently, my head combing out a request command and a proper line code to input. Make the camera transmit. Nothing wrong with the camera, computer thought there was a problem. It didn't want to read the image. I could make it read the image, and transfer with a bypass. Trick it into seeing, And recording. This would all be well, unless some idiot came through later and changed out the True for a False.

"Are we happy Mr. Park?" Steve asked. I glanced at his face, worn with lines and no indication of humor in his dark, sunken eyes. What sort of question was that, here of all places?

"_Yes I'm happy. Can you not see the big grin slapped on my face_?" But I say nothing. I turn back to the screen and put in the script patch. My cheesy sweater is damp; this is taking a little longer than I thought it would. I read the long code back to myself as I put it in, mouthing the figures that line up. Equation forming, molding it into the solution to make the problem True. I skim over the errors above. By the sound of it, I won't have time to troubleshoot this if the code is misread.

"Uh, Steve?" The voice in the respirator strained. "FMRI is still dark."

"You're doubting our friend Mr. Waylon Park," Steve gushed, with a mild tone of mock. "Which I consider more than unkind to his programming skill and considerable dedication to the Murkoff corporation."

It was no big secret that I had my reservations for what we were doing here, but I never spoke aloud. People pick up on these undertones. But in Murkoff's eyes, I was valuable. I got work done quick, efficiently, and that was what mattered. In the beginning I was warned to keep my head down, keep quiet. "For _Your_ safety." They had a method of making it sound like outside groups would find you, if they got wind about your place of employment. But, most of us knew that it was the Murkoff's way of keeping its employees compliant.

Compiling Morphogenic Engine Software

I erased and redid the last few figures. That would have been bad. Then Run the program. It was now a matter of waiting to see if the code was accepted. The loading bar filled up slowly. If I stared at it too long, it might start to run backwards. I pulled the front of my shirt out from my chest, and rolled the sleeves back from my wrists. It seemed warmer than usual in here.

The anxiety crept through my veins. I adjusted the keyboard at my fingertips, and turned to Steve, "It'll just load now—"

"Fuck me," he snapped, turning to somewhere distant, beyond the Plexiglas. "They're bringing him in." I turn in my seat to see where he was looking, but the second monitor was in the way. It was only confirming the script was doable. I check the main screen, and find it hasn't reached fifty percent yet. Damn, why….

"—knew it was coming," a voice shrieked. It was muffled through the airtight, glass box we sat in, isolated. Safe. "Your filthy fucking machines. You fucking machines!" The steps that climb up, and connect on level with the control room are directly across from me. From my view, I can see the armed guards escorting a wildly thrashing man across the lower chamber. I'm no longer interested in the gradual movement of the bar. I'm not thinking of equations or running script, I'm not thinking of anything. Except the man on the floor below fighting – fighting with everything he has in him. He has to be screeching until his lungs bleed, otherwise I wouldn't be able to hear him through the Plexiglas. "No! No, not again. No! No! Jack-booted fucks, I know what you've been…"

I check Steve's impassive face, just watching the scene unfold. There are guards down there, with guns. There's no way the patient can get away. But the cold detachment in Steve's eyes… I'll never get used to people with _That_ expression. Not seeing the person. I don't know what he sees. What could you possibly see? What are you thinking?

But I don't know psychology. I don't read people well, and I'm a little naïve in that regard. These matters of relation in the mind, though. I'm satisfied in not knowing.

"Help! Help me! Help me, they're going to—" I look away, to the guard standing beside the clear door shielding. I'm relieved by a more human reaction from him, his uncertainty as he witnesses the action on the floor below. His imposing stature is no longer projected, and he leans toward the door, fidgeting and glancing around. The door is locked via terminal code, and none of them will open the door. He looks to the technicians at the monitors displaying patient and Morphogenic synchronization, but none of them appear flustered in the slightest by the commotion. The guard must be new. "— Rape! Rape!"

I pretend to watch the last of the bar fill across the screen when someone starts screaming "Grab him." "Loose." I blink and see a shirtless man fly up the steps, and throw himself across the window. He's well-built physically, but veins on his arms and neck look unnatural. Exposed.

He's smashed his palms to the surface, and exhales a sharp sound that hardly sounds human. "Help me! Help!"

I've staggered out of my chair, backing away from him. "Don't let them do this! Don't let them!" He continues to beat his fists on the glass, shrieking. One of tactical security is already hiking up the step to seize him, but the distraught man notices me first. I'm certain that wild look in his eyes is set on me alone, and no one else. I back up. I don't want him to look at me. I don't want to feel responsible.

"You!" he howls. His last shred of desperation tears from his throat, agony and terror ignites in his face. The tactical guards wrap their arms over his chest, and struggle to drag him back down. The man breaks free, insane, agonized. He stares through me. "I know you can stop this!" I back away more and more, as a torrent of guards swarm the figure and heave him away from the glass. "You have to help me! You have to… "

I nearly tumble backwards when my heel comes down on the leg of the chair pressed behind me. I don't want to do this. I don't want to feel like I've condemned a man. I can't, I—

"Hey! Calm yourself." The guard from the door. He comes over, and pressed his hand to my chest when I whip around. I back away and put my arms up. I don't want to be taken where the patients have gone. "This is a high security—"

"It's all right, agent." Steve comes to my rescue. I flinch his way, nearly hitting him in the face. Steve is unconcerned and takes my arms, gently, one after the other and presses them back to my side. "Mr. Park was just surprised. I'm sure he's still calm and eager to finish his work." Steve sort of brushes the guard off, the same way a child might shoo a fly. Then, he gestures to the chair and takes my shoulder, pushing me towards the welcoming, calm blue fabric. "Take you seat."

I see beyond the loading screen – completed – that the man continues fighting his suppressors. "_You're in too deep_," I thought. "_How can you hope to escape, when you're in this deep?"_

I try and say thank you or some other word, but only manage this little wheeze. Steve's hand left my shoulder, when I place myself back at the terminal. I slide up to the screens and set my hands to the keyboard. The code and script have been incorporated into the program. I would…. Uhh…. What did I do next?

I keep glancing over the screen and the data, and observe the Morphogenic Engine. The terminals, the guys working down there. I don't see the patient anymore, and everything has restored to a calm state. That unnatural state. I can't stop looking at the odd images and movement in the large screens below, the _Static_ it's been called. I sometimes dream about it. Sometimes, I dream about them, and something else is there; some dark shadow from my childhood. Only kids are scared of the dark.

"Quickly, Mr. Park," Steve says. "A head will need to roll if perfusion monitoring is not active when they put him in the engine."

The Spin Labeling. A fancy word for program monitoring. Simple. Give me a moment. I fumble my fingers across the keyboard, getting the strokes in mind before I resume the actual command inputs. Activate it, give it the right sequence and we'd be good. The screen prompts Standing By, as I begin tapping.

Steve began to count down, "Five Seconds. Four. Three… "

I sigh. Give it the last sequence, then Enter. I recoil, when the monitor I was watching displayed the interior of the capsule, and the patient.

"Arterial Spin Labeling is back online," the man in the respirator says.

"Ah. Good then," Steve replied. He's behind me.

I stare at the screen, of the man with his odd undercut. His lips and nose are already red. He twitches and moaned, it looks awful. Cables jammed down his throat, needles jammed in his shoulder and stomach. I hear an audible creak and when I look down, I see that I've gripped the edges of the keyboard and am trying to strangle it. When I raise my eyes back to the patient, his head is already bobbing and it looks as though he's gone to sleep. I watch the red blemishes spread along the side of his face and neck, ugly welts, like burns. I couldn't think of what else they could be, they appear so quickly.

"Positioning imaging planes…."

The patient's head spasms, and finally he succumbs to the chemicals, or whatever they pump into him. Could be gas, or injections. They put them in the pods, and fill them with terrible things. It's not right, it's immoral. But I can't say no. Christ, what is it I'm doing here?

"You're finished, Mr. Waylon Park," Steve snapped. He braced an arm across my chest and grips my shoulder. Steve glimpsed the screen I was fixated on and leans into my line of sight, effectively blocking view of the screen. "You can leave."

The forceful tone crushes any drop of curiosity that was in my blood. I push away from the terminal and rise from the chair. At my back Steve, says. "Don't expect anything but honesty in my review of your performance."

Who cares about performance reviews? Only the doctors. I stick my hands in my pockets as I head towards the chambers exit. The mild putter of the fans drum on, but fail to cloak the voices I leave behind. Like echoes.

"You have the dream therapy logs?"

Going too deep.

"What are these spikes?"

Waiting in the mountains.

I stop at the blast doors and turn back, trying to see the capsule beyond the crisp clean scrubs. I wanted to see what was happening, what was it they were trying to do? Far as I could tell, they had accomplished nothing. I never saw the people, after they went to the Engine. I never saw what happened to them. And I wasn't doing much about it, here.

"You need to exit the room, Sir." I glanced back the guard beside the entry threshold, arms crossed and glaring my way. I frowned, and turned away.

In all the excitement, I had forgotten about the laptop. I nodded to the next security figure standing outside, as I breezed by. He watched my progress as they usually did. I quickened my pace when I made it around the bend. The doctors that had been conversing in the hall were now gone; probably went for a meal or a nap. Their chatter was not missed, and I wanted to sit in my quiet corner to mull over my thoughts. I was still on shift and couldn't go back to my room for a proper rest, nor could I get away from these sterile, chiseled corridors. I wanted to forget what I saw, distance myself from the sensation. I hate the indirect guilty. It's not proper guilt, it's the kind without a face. I don't want it.

I shut the door behind me, and stalled. The two security agents looked my way, but say nothing. The one on the monitor continues his work, moving the cursor and keeping observation. Behind the desk, on the wall at his back was the logo for C Block.

I wanted to say something, anything, to cut the impassable silence. I just couldn't. Couldn't bring myself to open my mouth, and feel a small piece of my humanity trickle away.

I gave a weak greeting as I passed through, and entered the clear sliding doors. The hiss of hydraulics, in a way, emphasized the frigid state of the halls. Though the air was stale and overused, it was still a refreshing change compared to the overbearing warmth of the Morphogenic chamber. My skin was starting to dry out, but the dampness clung to my back like an unwanted glove. I pulled at the edges of my collar as I moved to the end of the hall, the walls mercifully silent for once.

I hated the way this place vibrated, how even the air seemed alive. In time, you could get used to it; but left to your own devices, bare of a distraction, it would slither through your skin. We never discussed it, but there was always that veil of unease in the atmosphere. It was just paranoia, and the physicians said it was perfectly natural.

No. It wasn't. A lot of what they said was a flat out lie. You couldn't tell if they were telling the truth anymore, or if they gave in to their own lies. Sometimes, it was easier

I stopped when I reached the corridors end, and the door I had left there, the room I worked in. I watched the, waiting, biding time. Strong tremors rolled up and down my arms, and the dampness returned to the back of my neck. I hated this place, but I needed work. Bills to pay. You couldn't survive without money. I was pushed into this. I had things that needed to be fixed. Mended. I was trying to do the right thing.

I remember leaving the door closed.


	3. Chapter 3

Resignation

I thought about it carefully.

Someone would be inside the room. I couldn't think of who it could be, I was the only one that came to this side of C block. The other rooms were locked, except for this one. It would only be natural that someone would know about the only locked room and go inside to get away from the drone of people, doctors, scientists. I took a small breath and reached forward, pushing the door a bit. It swung open on air, quiet and calm. The interior of the room, silent as a grave. The twitter of the spare computer towers on idle echo back to me. I glanced over the shelves, trying to see through the gaps of CBs and discarded walkie-talkies, spare keyboards. Under the bright lamps I could make out nothing, contrasted against the darkened shades of the rooms restricted area.

"Hello?" I choked a bit, and try again. "Hello? Someone there?" I waited, but no sound. I leaned back and looked back through the corridor, toward the clear doors of C Block's security point. I saw no one there. I knew the guards were still there, probably making comments about my awful sweater vest. I liked it. It kept me warm. However now. Now it was too warm.

I step into the room and listen, struggling to perceive what my eyes and ears are blind to. A strange sensation envelopes me. Excitement. Fear. It's strong and solid, and real. The air has suddenly become too warm, like I'm back in the Morphogenic chamber, unable to escape. I say nothing as I moved forward, deeper into this cloak of dread and danger. I cannot turn back now, can't turn away from what I have started. I have to do something, but running now might be too late.

Even before I turn the corner of the makeshift fence, before my eyes adjust to the dark, I can envision him. A dark silhouette amid a halo of light, an impression in my eyes. I thought I was seeing something from the Engine. Caught something from the screen and just fabricated the shape in my mind and no one is there. I was safe.

My realty crumbles apart the moment he begins speaking.

"Somebody's been telling stories outside of class."

I stood gawking for second or so, at this man perched at my desk. The laptop is there, sitting innocently beside his elbow. He was leaned back on the desk, one leg crossed his thigh. Even in the dark back of the room, his eyes somehow caught the light from the screen behind him. Physics couldn't explain how. The email I had composed was laid out for all eyes to see. My words, my admission, stolen somehow. Where did I go wrong? My mind screams. What did I MISS?

I recall now. I blocked it when I had stepped through the gate, because I couldn't go back. I would lead him there. I was spooked, in a hurry. I hit a few keys blindly then shut the laptop and shoved it away.

But I didn't close out of my documents. I didn't cover my trail. I left it open and idle for much too long. Enough for even a high school hacker to blaze through and tear apart my encryption. I—

I fucked up so bad.

My first instinct was run. I twisted about and charged through the gate, running smack into a guard that had been sneaking up on me. I plowed my hands into him, and he thrust his fists against my sweater. "On the floor!" he snarled. He knotted his grip in the fabric and threw me backwards, again and again until I was back in the dark little closet. "Down! Hands where I can see them!"

I put my hands under me, had to try and get myself up. Somehow, had to get away. Somehow.

The security agent kneels over me, looped an arm around me and raised me to my feet. I wanted to push away from him, but he latched his hands over my upper arms and threw me against the wall. I haven't the capacity to brace myself and hit. Shoulder and head. My vision fades a portion and I see the ribbons, the twisting distortions of grays and white. In the mountain.

My legs fold up under me and I fall. It hurts, my head pounds with the tempo of thunder, I can hear blood gushing in my ears. Nothing's broke. Not yet, I'm sure.

"Mr. Waylon Park, consulting contract 8208," says the man. I recognize him, I know who he is. Him of all people, Christ. I look up from my ratty shoes, as he slides the laptop off the desk and walks over. He holds it before him like a great tome, as if he's reading my entire life history off its gleaming screen. "Software engineer with a level three security clearance." With his face fully illuminated in the laptops damning light, he looks ghostly and pale. The thick veil of danger and heat constricts my chest and I struggle to breath through it, keep my thoughts clear. The security, the people I passed when I was returning to the side of C Block, stand within the gate watching. The insane notion that I should beseech them for help, talk my way out of this hits me hard. I stall under the blow, unable to say anything but turn my eyes back to my supervisor. He leans over me, holding the laptop a little out from him.

"Graduated cum laude from Berkley, but still somehow not smart enough to realize the last thing a fly ought to do in a spider's web is wiggle." He lets the laptop go and I jerk my feet back as it hits the floor, the screen twists off the back and the keys scatter on white stone. With a last pulse of electrical current, the screen goes dark and with it, my convictions.

I watch it briefly, trying to decide if I had options. If there was anyway I could get out of this. I licked my lips and swallowed the saliva in my throat, then looked back to the man in the suit. Jeremy Blair.

He hated me. From day one he hated me. He hated me so much he was willing to kill me to get me out of the way. He was waiting for this, and I gave it to him. Oh…god.

He set his hands to his thighs and leaned over. "Yet, somehow dumb enough to think that a borrowed laptop, onion router, and firewall patch would be enough to fool the world's leading supplier of biometric security." They were baiting me. All this time, they knew. They just didn't know WHO it was. They found me. They found me now.

"Stupid, Mr. Park." Jeremy raised a hand to the side of his skull and tapped, gently. Emphasizing from where we usually make good, life long decisions. Life long. My breath came tighter, wheezing through my nose as I struggled to not make a sound. I didn't want… to sound as pitiful as I looked. Subconsciously, I pressed myself back into the wall a little more. The walls of the room were closing in, warping in my eyes as my panic escalated. I felt sick to my stomach, and suddenly very cold. It was so cold now. "More than stupid," Jeremy went on. "In fact, that was crazy."

I… uhh. Rumors. I heard of Rumors. People would go missing. I don't know where, no one every elaborated. But there was talk. Delusions. Some of the staff suffered delusions, or saw what they shouldn't. It was… sketchy. If they thought you needed help, they encouraged it. What Murkoff said, and what it did, was two opposites. You were sick, they would help—they made it worse. You wanted to out, they said that was fine—people were 'reassigned.' Sometimes it made sense. People around here were jumpy, paranoid, they needed help. I wanted… to help. That's all I wanted, to make this right.

But I fucked it up. I fucked up.

"I'm afraid we're going to have, to have you committed." Jeremy reached over and took the glasses that had fallen sideways over my nose. "Mr. Park," he said, and straightened up. "Will you willingly submit to forced confinement?"

"You can't," I whispered. "You can't do this." My words die in my throat. This isn't happening. This can't be happening.

"Did you hear that, agent?" Jeremy hummed, turning to the security detail that stood beside him. The guards have guns, they're ready for me to run. I have nowhere to go. They could throw my down, break my body, crush my brain with a well-placed foot. Why would they need guns? I looked to the agent, arms crossed staring down on me. I want to plead. I want to ask, beseech help. Why won't you help me?

The agent swings to Jeremy, "He said 'Yes,' Mr. Blair."

They're really doing this. They really are. Everything that I have grown to love, to tolerate, is gone. Dust. Memories fade, sensations. I become numb. I can't do this, I won't.

"Great," Jeremy said, with a pleasant smile. His face brightens and he raises his hand, indicating my pathetic shape huddled on the ground. "Oh, and… Did I just hear Mr. Waylon Park volunteer for the Morphogenic Engine program?"

"That's what I heard, Mr. Blair."

No.

The Engine. The _Morphogenic_ Engine. No. God, no! They don't intend to kill me, they're only goal is to take my brain and body apart, until there's nothing left. Nothing left human! What happens to the people that have seen the Engine. NO!

"Please. Jeremy." I'm creeping along the wall, towards that corner. I'll fight them if I have to, make them kill me. They won't take me alive. If I'm left to live what remains of me will want to die. I want to—

What am I saying? I want to die? I'll let them kill me. I'll let myself die? If give in. I'll disappear. Everything inside of me that is me, will disappear. Then Jeremy Blair will not have to worry or hate me ever again. And that's what he wants. That's his goal.

"That is brave, indeed, Waylon," Jeremy said. "The Murkoff Corporation and the onward march of science both appreciate your bravery and sacrifice. Maybe you could administer Mr. Park here a light anesthetic?" Jeremy didn't look to the security, but he did motion me with a hand. And stepped back.

The unarmed guard stepped forward and pulled back a fist. I saw it coming a mile away. "Gladly."

I fell back against the wall and put up my hands. Block, protect my skull. Don't let them KILL ME! The agent plowed through my arms and collided his knuckles with my eye. The ribbons, the gate, the walls flew away and swung back. I felt my body fall over, thoughts get scattered to the distant corridors of my mind. What's happened? I put motion back in my body, give it commands to follow. I have to get my head up. But I've fallen over, and my will is lost somewhere dark in my mind.

I think about the man, the patient I watched get stuffed into a capsule. What's become of him now?

My vision clears, and my arms thrash above my head as I sputter on my back. I've forgotten to get away, I must first be upright. But I'm thrashing, broken and confused and screaming, as the guard that hit me sweeps over my face. He has something, I can't figure out what it is. A sturdy, hard, blunt object? I put an arm up to block the downward swing he's brought, but it crashes through my arm and makes contact with my head. My body goes still, I can't feel my arms or anything as my head is crushed between the object and miles of interior mountain stone. The gray comes back, the truck, images swimming off the screen. People are there staring at me. Stares that judge, stares that want so much from me. Hungry dark stares.

People… should not have that sort of look on their face.

I gag on my tongue as I spit up salty thick fluid. Am I dead yet? Have they decided to kill me instead? Don't die, please don't die. I twist my head and spit on the floor. My surroundings come into focus, and I hate how I am still conscious after that blow. I see shoes, legs. My body doesn't respond as I lay there gawking at the leg as it draws back.

Then I am swallowed up by the images. They become me, and I exist in their world. They are all I know.

I feel my breathing. Slow, steady, inhale, exhale. Gates, elevator gate. Then the skull, the ribbons. I feel it inside my thoughts making a slow march through my brain, there's no way I can stop it. I imagine everything in my mind being erased, then rewritten. One pulse after the next, each twist of the image. The blossoms. They invade everything that I once held dear, until there's nothing but void and white, indescribable ugly imprints. Focus sometimes comes back, if only briefly. It's too painful to bear, bright lights and things being done to me. I have no power to stop it. Everything is out of control. My life is beyond me, beyond the glass.

I'm begging, pleading for the man inside to do something. "Help me! You have to help!" But he only stares back, frightened and confused. He must be new.

Arms loop over my chest and shoulder, dragging me back to the dark, and the images. The images swallow me alive, and it is too painful to fight. To struggle to the surface of conscious and thrash about, lungs raw and voice hoarse. I can't get out the meaning of the pain, or how I want it to stop. Then I'm drowning in the sea of gray. Of warped, blooming wounds, bleeding out and crusting over.

My body seizes up and my brain begins to die. I can't feel my heart thudding in my chest. It all becomes still and terribly cold, the world I had fought through becomes distant. I watch myself, rigid with eyes white staring at a screen full of lies and pain. I want to leave this place, find somewhere warm where I don't have to worry about the terrible things they'll do to my body. A dark place where there are no images that twist in my mind, no hands to beat me bloody. I want to sleep.

But I take a breath. Then another. The vibrations in my chest begin soft, gradual at first. Then stronger and stronger. Until I'm dragged back without contest, with no protest. I breath deep and it hurts, it hurts to fill my lungs with air and continue. To force life back into my unresponsive limbs that are no more me, than I am.

The truck. It was a car. I looked away for a second. I have to remind myself, because I've been judged harshly. They wanted to judge me. Make what they say the Truth. I tried to fight back, but all the good it did me. Us. If I had said "Take everything, leave us alone." Would it have mattered? They wouldn't be satisfied. Revenge is cruel. Revenge is a cold blind tool. But people love it. They paint it on ideas, gather support, then fight with everything they have. Then it's a cycle. A repetitive motion.

There was noise and bright light. I can't remember what happened after that. Only that the panic was in my head, and I needed to find someone. Someone that was riding with me. Coming back from soccer practice. It was a perfect day, a beautiful day. Nothing should go wrong on a day like that.

But it did.

I hear the scratching clawing at my head, into my brain. Deep into my darkest thoughts. Ribbons and skulls, X-rays and Rorschach's. Every beat of my heart, every breath I take. They get worse and worse. I remember what's happened, where I am. It's vague, the memory lodged with pain, I rework it over and over in my head until I can see nothing. The man behind the glass, running script, an easy patch. Firewalls that held back nothing, the guy that must be knew. It comes back, and I lurch physically from the flood of emotion. My chest tightens, and I feel the restraints holding me.

The man is curled up on the cold white floor, in the darkest corner. He pleads, he tries to ask the doctors standing around the computers. The ones that pay no mind to him, to the sounds of anguish he generates. I sit in a chair staring at him, unable to do a thing. They'd tied me back, I can't go anywhere.

"He had five cancers." The voice, through a respirator, is somewhere behind me. I have a hard time focusing on the man. My mind, what I'm seeing, can't be processed. It doesn't make sense to me.

"Wernicke wants us at fifteen APCD. None of this matter…" The other voice trails off, as the man begins screaming.

"You! You can't let them do this!" He's trying to get out of the restricted area, through the fenced in back. But the security detail holds his arms as he flails about, like a kid trying to jump over waves. We'd taken the kids to the beach. "Stop this! Help me!"

I want to rest my head somewhere, but its pinned back and I can't move it. I can only stare as the images distort. They burrow behind my eyes until I only see white outlines, and dark silhouettes gliding behind the mess in my head. The scene evaporates little by little, and I become aware of the room I'm in. The terrible room, with the Engine of nightmares. I renew my screaming, coming from the null state into one of stimuli I cannot take it. I don't remember how to process input – sound, scent, my eyes begin to clear. Where has the patient gone?

I grip at the armrest my hands are under. It's hot in my grip, and I feel my fingers dig painfully over the hard material. I gag on the tubes shoved down my throat. Can't comprehend them, all I can ruminate on is how much I hurt. How painful it is to be alive still.

There's a new sound. One I've never in my life heard before. It's a soft hum that dies, and fades into silence. The scratching of the screen fails all at once. All I can do is gawk at the screen, jaw hanging while the capacity to shut my mouth is beyond my physical power. I breath slower now, calm I think it is. I'm calm, my muscles begin to relax and the agony swells through me causing my eyes to water. I'm not blind. I can still see I can everything.

The rooms walls, the twelve screens, the tripod and the camera. But I cannot move my head or my body, nor do I want to. Thoughts trickle back into my head. Where was I last? A dark space, in the back of a hole. Someplace I had thought was safe. There's no safe place here, on this soil. It's all a lie, an illusion. If you believe what they tell you, you will wind up worse than dead. Somehow, I was still alive. I was close, but not there yet. Not there.

A loud _Crack_ echoes through the small room. I feel I can still hear my shrieks, as though they continue to crash against the hard stone walls. The pressure is released from my wrists and my ankles. My head is free. The sudden return of movement disturbs me greatly, I sway in the chair as I take in my red wrists, my arms. I'm here. I'm still me. Am I?

The images. They scratch at the edges of my peripheral and drag through my vision, leaving distorted groves in my vision. Hot pain slithers through the back of my head to my brow. I moan, turning my head to work away from the impression I see, escape the vertigo they press into my skull. The room I am in is glasses, Plexi. I can see other people, in similar state as I am.

At my left a man hangs over the side of his chair, but his screens. Twelve. They are white, but blank. There's no more scratching, no more Static. He's no better than I am. As the blooming vapors twist in my eyes, it somehow reminds me of the tubes in my throat. They hurt, I don't know if I could remove them, but I try. I choke as I grab at them, that gag reflex. I don't want to throw up, don't have the energy.

"Shhh. Shhhh!" I hear his voice, muffled, and banging. Soft, but frantic banging on something. I remember that sound. The person on my right is further along than I am, already standing. He looks… agitated by something. He attempts to hush me, and stands scanning his chamber over.

The tube slips out with a gush of fluid and bile. I don't know what it was for. I turn to the right as I flop out of the chair, murmuring awful sounds as I clear my throat of what was left of the obstruction. I relish the ability to shut my mouth, and relax my sore jaw. I can see the figure from the room over pressed against the Plexiglas, struggling to get my attention

"You hear that, don't you? Oh… ah…" I take a breath but I can't speak, my throat is too raw. As I turn on my side to face him better, my blood runs cold. I hear it too. I hear it and I've heard it all this time. The images tear through my mind, warped figures, gates, skulls. What I had thought I escaped, was now amplified.

The man gave a screech as his a… shadow tore him backwards. I didn't get a good look, I pushed myself towards the wall and choked on my own tongue as I witnessed, his feet fly through the air. Sounds came, grotesque and terrifying sounds. By some small mercy of some intervention god, the lights went out and the rooms were plunged into darkness. In the endless sea of black I tried to get up and move, but still so weak I fell over and knocked hard metal legs across my side. The Rorschach's enveloped my senses, the skulls splint and bloomed like wild ribbons. They lessened and faded as I lay still and quite for what felt like hours. Maybe it was hours. But the sounds that came from the cells around me, the awful screams and wet noises of blood and organs, of throats and bodies pulled to pieces. I could only envision the hell that was spread around me.

I lay in the dark like a broken child hiding from monsters. If I kept still, it would never find me. If I moved, made a sound, I would be eaten alive. My chest ached as my heart beat against my ribs, I was terrified the sound would alert…. It. Whatever it was. I thought for certain it would pick up my strained breathing.

It never did.

Somewhere in the endless dark my brain shut down. I didn't dream, I might've slipped into shock. But nothing came to me for a long time. Maybe I had absorbed too many of the images. Maybe I couldn't dream anymore. What was it they called it? Dream therapy. Sleep state. Buried so deep. Lost a little bit of us each day. My head pulsed, residual aches that flared like firecrackers behind my eyes, accompanied by an odd taste in the back of my throat. It's like… my brains been nudged around in my skull.

Too much. I had absorbed too much.

I shift a bit, and felt the metal bar that fell over me clank to the floor. It was top heavy, but what— The camera. It was the video camera set up to film me. The notion caused my skin to bristle. The room wasn't cold, it was warm and stuffy and smelled, god it smelled terrible. How long had I been locked in here?

The camcorder becomes a distraction. I sit up, propped against the wall of screens and work to get the camera off the tripod. I know you twist the top, but it was awkward to do it in the heavy black. The camera comes loose in my hand and I set the tripod aside, before I and fumble with the back of the camera, the operations. Cameras are universal, if you already know how to operate them you don't need the instructions. I go through the options, I ignore the segments of film already taken. It's in functions, but I find a night scene option. I set it to default and accidentally look through the visor as I turn the camera to the wall in front of me.

It's blood. The wall is covered with blood, pieces of bone, and intestines. All of it splattered across the Plexiglas, a thick wall of gore suspended in the dull green hue of the night feature. All at once I feel so little and vulnerable. I turn and check the other side, and find much of the same. Black in the green visor, pieces of something that had been a human shortly before. It was surreal. Not very long before, the man had been slumped over in his chair as he recovered from the Engine. There was nothing left of the mess that resembled a corpse.

I'm back in the car, feeling helpless and broken. It was terrible, it happened so fast. A whirlwind of trauma that no one deserved, but somehow I was at fault. I couldn't even open the door.

Oh god, Lisa. I'm sorry, so sorry. Baby, please. I never meant for this to happen. I didn't mean for any of this. No one… no one ever does. LISA.

I curl up in the other side of the cell, against the clear surface of the door. I don't know where everyone is, if that … shadow. Christ, I don't want to think about it. If there's no one around. The air shut down long ago. I'm pressed into the Plexiglas door, the camera in my lap. I have enough mental faculty to keep my breathing slow and steady, I know not to panic. I think I'm as good as dead, but shouting and trying to get attention won't help. It will hasten death in many ways. But if it comes down to it, I think I would like to just go to sleep. I don't know what suffocating is like.

As the air thins, the shapes return. Odd half moons and wings, ribbons twisting through my skull. I press my palms to my ears to hold the sounds off, but they are in my thoughts churning through my brain matter. If I leave this place, if they let me go. Everything will be all right. I'm one of them in a way, I might by lying. This place is full of lies and nightmares.

"You think you're safe in there." A voice. I imagined it, maybe. I look around but I don't see who spoke. But it's dark, and the camera is in my lap. I pull it up and click on the night vision. "Wall flower. Pretty flower." Wha… he calls its flowers? I sit up on my knees as the figure stalks past. I freeze up when he looks right at me, as he strolls by. He's a patient, he must be. He's wearing what they put me in, but his face… scarred, marred. I've seen similar marks, but not on this level. I watch as he continues on. Somehow, he sees me despite the black that floods this place. Or, he sees the visor gleaming off my shocked face.

"Fucking…. I'll open you up." He stops before the door, and from where I'm perched on the floor the Nanohazard symbol printed on the clear barrier is haloed over his head. "Open you up and show you," he said. "Make you purr. You wait right there."

I had little confidence in what he was saying. He wasn't coherent, he was lost in the images that filled his head. To my astonishment, he continued to the end of the corridor to a terminal lit by its screens. I thought he was drawn to the light, but he touched the dials and the door before me gave a hiss as it swung open. Cool, stale air washed over my body. I took a few deep breaths, my chest ached to inflate with fresher air, but it felt good. I can't believe it felt good to be hurt and breathing.

With the camcorder still in hand, I all but crawled out of the cell. I had to get on my feet, get my muscles to work. Needed to find out what happened, what was going on. I would've asked the patient these things, but the man had already forgotten about me. I pushed myself upright and leaned on the clear glass wall, as he wandered by making mutters about these flowers he saw. Wings and flowers. I wanted to forget them, he was lost to them.

I staggered to the end of the hall, trying to make sense of where I was, what sort of place they had forgotten me in. The other room, filled with gore, was open as well. Maybe my savior had not been trying to help me specifically, but I was only very lucky. I stumbled against a plastic covering fitted against the opposite wall, the natural plaster wall of the building. If I wasn't hypnotized by the bright gleam of monitors and the promise of information, I might've recognized the signs. Instead I ignored it, and moved to the terminal the patient had fiddle over. Not to my surprise, there was nothing on it to help me understand where I was. What was happening.

I was starring at scans, neuron imaging, some kind of fluctuating patterns and spikes measured through vibrant scans. Dreams. The Engine. I felt those distortions work through, those 'flowers' as he called them digging into my thoughts. Oh, Lisa. My boys. Names. What… What were their names?

I dropped over the terminal, my strength failing me as I pushed from the wall. I slip down to rest on my side rather my knees, the rags they've put me in offers no barrier, no comfort against the elements. It just covers me and it smells… terrible. They put me in a room and forgot about me, left me to die. And now, now. Now I can't remember things. I remember… the accident. The truck. No. NO!

I put my back against the wall coated in plastic, and stare at the clear chamber across from me filled with death. The copper reek works its way out to me. Repetition. Cycle. Numbers. Four. Four people. Four of us, my family. Two boys, my wife. I left them, to do the right thing. What was the right thing to do anymore? I fucked up. I broke it all.

My hand was still poised on the terminal, and I slipped it off to my lap. Something startled me as it flipped off, across my line of sight. I glared at it distrustfully, until I got up the nerve to reach over and touch it. In the frail light of the screens above I could make out its surface. A little booklet. I flipped it over and looked through the notes. Messages, a few reminders and shortcut commands I couldn't read. I hated how the numbers, were just numbers. Where did it all go? What else did I forget? A gripping pain of failure and worthlessness rippled through me. It's what I did, it had been my job for years.

It'll come back though, it could. I needed time. Time to remember. I remembered my wife's name. My wife. The boys names will come back.

I flipped open to a clean page. The notebook didn't bend all the way back, due to the pen stuck in its spiral back. I pulled the pen free and gave the notebook another look through, before I began writing on the first clean page. Tears burned my eyes, my handwriting was never something I'd share, but the scratch I was putting down could hardly be considered a cousin with the English alphabet. I'm just shaken up, that's all. Give it time, it'll pass. I'll recover. I'll bounce back.

"_I fucked up. Oh god. Where am I? Hours could have passed. Or weeks. Brain filled with Static, they made me watch the… the Engine. Have to get help. Have to call for help. Lisa, I'm sorry._

_If I die, I know you'll find me._

_I know you won't rest until you find my body. I hope you find this camera with my corpse. I hope the evidence on it does what I couldn't, exposes the truth._

_Lisa, baby, I'm sorry. I fucked up. I thought I was doing the right thing. But I fucked up bad_."

By the end of the note, I was done. I was at my limit, whatever meager little scrap of it remained after the Engine, listening to people die, my amnesia. I don't know what I was going to do. Had no idea where I was, what was going on. They tried to take everything in me away, and leave nothing. I somehow survived. I don't understand. I understand nothing.

I write the note, back propped up by the plastic layer, a little wet spot forming on my back through the filthy rags I'm wearing. When I finish writing, I drop the notebook beside the camera and collapse into my arms sobbing. I don't know what I'm going to do. They won't let me walk out of here, I won't be allowed to leave. Is there even a way out?

If I stay here and they find me, they'll finish what's left of me off. Regardless how broken I have become. I have to leave before I am found, before they discover what has happened here.

I dry my face off, and collect the few items I have procured. I'm no steadier on my feet than I was before, but I'm getting stronger. At the terminal is a spare battery for the cameras main memory. I know the spare will be worth carrying, if I plan to continue gathering evidence. The night vision function had a spare power source, a feature that reduced strain on the camera itself. It only required a single double A. It already had one in, but it was more than half depleted.

There was a detail I was missing. Something important about the use of the night vision in the video camera. It was in a distant conversation, lost among the many things in my mind. Trying to conjure up the recollection resulted in wings stretching through my vision, a sharp ache, and a smell like scorched cotton. A warm smell, hallucinations. None of this was good. I left it alone, and let pain subside to a tolerable degree.

I return to the corridor, the way the patient had wandered. I kept my hand pressed to the wall, a portion of my attention on the video feed of the cameras visor angled beside my head. The rooms they had stuffed us in, now bloody and thick with copper, had medical tables and various vials and bottles lined up on top of them. That was aside from the strange tubes… Feeding tubes. I had lost weight, I could feel it around my middle. But I wasn't starved. They had kept us alive with bare essential nutrients. I didn't feel hungry either, I felt hollow and betrayed. Everything. They took everything.

The patient that had assisted me, was standing in the last room. I was using the night vision to guide my way, and accidentally looked his way before I reached the end door. He was standing in a puddle of bloody, human pieces, just staring at the mess beneath his toes. He looked up my way, and without making any sudden movements I pulled the door before me open.

I pulled the door shut at my back and lowered the camera. It was awkward carrying the notepad, spare battery, and camera between my hands, but my jumper had no pockets. I stumbled forward, and tried to do something a little more creative with these items. The sleeves of my smock are tight enough, I just stuff the notepad and spare battery in. I pick up on sound coming from through the next doorway. The small transition hall is not very long, and I see more of the thick plastic coating the worn walls. The lamps above still work in this short section, and the yellow blaze settles a thick layer of heat on my shoulders.

A doorway is set in the wall beside me, the plastic cut out to allow access to the bathroom. People in this area used them. I stumbled into the clear door that was slung back, that same nanohazard symbol pressed into its dirtied pane. The sounds beyond the doorway were loud now, I pushed on into the room –corridor. The path ahead was dark, with only a lamp here or there that blazed against the heavy black walls. I was amazed by how little I could see even with a few scarce lights. Off items stuck out as sharp shapes huddled in the hall, a misplaced medical cart covered in bottles and tools, and a few large canisters set on a trolley.

I began to realize this wasn't the area beneath the mountain, I still didn't know where I was. But if I wasn't under Mount Massive, my chances of walking out of here had increased by… by... A good percentage.

It'll come back to me. Just takes time.

Sheets of the plastic walling was set up, thick enough to block off the other half of the room. This must've normally been a large room, but now it was sectioned. On the other side of the shielding, was the rest of the room. A medical ward, shelves and cabinets lined the walls and a table sat in the rooms center, around it sat various pieces of discarded furniture. The wings spread across the plastic, twisting against the clear surface. I choke as my head pulses, I had all but forgotten. Hadn't managed to leave behind the pulsing shapes yet. Flowers, he called them. They bloom in my eyes, I can barely see through them into the medical room. There's movement beyond the shapes imposed over my eyes. Danger

"Keep him still," sneered a voice. I crept around the canisters, my attention divided by navigating the floor and the action within the room beside me. "I been dreaming about this for ever. Doctor."

Numerous people, more patients, were situated around the lone table of the makeshift medical ward. Even at this distance I could identify the scarring and wounds that ruined their bodies. A few were shirtless, others were fully clothed. To my horror, they had a man in medical scrubs stretched out on the steel table. A group was poised to hold the struggling figure down, while another patient stood over the doctor and insisted on jamming the knife into the table.

As I watched, the doctor screamed and pleaded with the man over him. Numerous times the blade missed the squirming body and hit the table, the sharp clack that resulted, would echo throughout the room they were in and managed to creep into my side.

I didn't think the patients could get through the thick plastic between them and I, even with a sharp butcher knife. I didn't want to test them. I moved through the soft shadows of the barred off end of the room, occasionally I'd looked up to check the doctors progress. Though, I fought my curiosity to look over, I didn't want to catch the fateful moment of the inevitable outcome. The doctor had no chance of escaping, and I had no means to help him.

I was startled by the notion that I really didn't want to help him. Even if I could, I wouldn't want to bother. It was wrong, I shouldn't feel this way. What was done to me was worse than I thought.

By the time I reached the corridors end, I had an odd taste in the back of my throat. Sirens echo from around the corner, splinting my skull with their intrusive shrill. Images pulse, images I want to forget but they never leave. Hard to think, the migraine I carry intensifies as I lean around the doorframe. The corridor is large, a set of canisters sit directly across from me, plastic draped and stretched over outdated walls. Along the length of the hall are situated some metal doors, but no way into the medical room with the patients along my side. Good.

My attention trails the movement of another patient, as he darts across the hall to the nearest open door. He dives into the room and the metal door clanks shut. Hollow. Empty. But I am alone, and that is what matters.

Sharp pain constricts my skull, and the blossoms… I don't know what else to call them. The blurs intensify as I wait for the sensation to pass, and borrowed relief to flood the veins in my brain once more. But the agony doesn't peak, it instead stabilizes. I nearly topple as I push away from the doorframe. The Engine. I thought I would leave it behind the further I went, but it followed me. No. It was in my head. Static churning through my memories, scrambling my objective. Too much. Too much stimuli all at once. I'm breaking under the strain.

In the open hall there's… something. A familiar outline, a sort of shade I can't define. My hand quivers as I struggle to raise the camera. Somewhere in me is this recollection, one of the few I was allowed to keep after the treatment. A forgotten and distant conversation. A light. Some kind of enhancement, can make it revealed. Maybe it was a joke, or another spook story. But I'm in pain, too much pain for sanity's sake. The visor reveals nothing, until I find the switch for the night vision. The pain, the screeching, the images swarming behind my eyes. It's all too much, I can hardly get my eyes open to evaluate the distorted green hue of the visor and what it exposes.

My jaw is locked tight, I feel drool seeping down my chin. My breath is ragged, as I struggle to wrestle control over my body. The Engine. It'll kill me. Indirectly, if I can't see, can't breath. If I can't focus. What is it I needed to do?

Escape.

The mist condenses into a manageable shape, a form familiar. Humanoid. Too human. It's presence sent sharp prickles up my arms and down my spine. Its aura was malice, death, an unstoppable wave of wild emotion. All the pieces of unresolved trauma pressed into this cold space of the hall. It sought an outlet for the pain, to punish those that had ripped it from the suffering minds of sick people. It was the manifestation of their hate, of their tears and blood. But now it was out of control, and it was killing whatever it could catch to sate its voracious appetite for revenge.

"_Is this what they were tying to do?_" I'm backing away. Not fast enough. Can't get the commands to my legs, can't make myself move faster. Some sick fascination has overridden my drive for survival. I want to see it. Have to see it before I die. The lamps above pulse and fade, as I lower the video camera from my face. It's almost calm when I pretend it's gone, but I know it's there. Even if I can't see it, it was always there. It was always been there, waiting.

I'm trying to remember things. How can it be so hard to remember? The doctors were always talking about the dream therapy. How did that, make this? I stumble on my feet and nearly fall, if not for the wall I brace my body against. "_Or… was this what they found_?"

Shrieking. Wailing. A forlorn sound of broken gears twisting through gravel, rising in volume as I stand where I am, and listen like a dolt. When I'm certain I can no longer bear the sharp squeal, I twist away and stagger back through the doorway. The plastic walls, the medical cart, faces of people maimed by lies, blur around me as I dash through the decrepit corridor. It seems much longer and more corroded by age than what I remembered. All the time I could hear the rasp and grating den of the thing I had seen. It had to be following, it would be compelled to pursue and punish me. Destroy every last one of us for what we had done.

I practically plowed into the door of the dark chamber I had escaped from. It fumbled and fought with the handle, but the door was locked somehow! I didn't linger long to understand what had happened. As it was, I could hardly see what I was trying to do at the door with my senses swamped by pulsing blooms. Wall flowers.

The torn out plastic at my side caught my attention as I swung back, groaning through my teeth. The door was wide open, all incentive enough for me to dive inside. The bathroom interior was brimming with light and the air was thick with the foul chemical smells of bleach. I pressed my shoulder against the old wood door as I swept it shut. I paused for a moment, listening for the sounds. For eerie chatter, scraping through the air, as though its shape was an abomination on nature itself. I backed away from the door when glorious silence slid into my ears, and I continued to back away toward one of the stalls. I pulled the door open and stepped inside, crammed my body between the foul ceramic toilet bowl and the wood side of the stall. The stillness enveloped my senses, my heart throbbed and I could hear the blood gush through my eardrums. I waited for nothing but for the world around me to die, so I may continue living.

Beyond the door sirens hummed, distant echoes rolling through the open halls. Was there anyone left to appreciate the call? To heed the warning?

"Those crazy idiots," I muttered, breathless. It didn't feel possible to catch my breath, my chest heaved with each gulp of air. My eyes stung, and the shapes twisting in my head. It magnified the painful memories, the loop.

Did they succeed? I wondered. Was that what they were trying to make? Was that the thing they were looking for, in those people, in their fractured minds? Those crazy bastards. I couldn't be sure, but I didn't know what else That could be. It was unnatural and evil. But most of all, I didn't understand it. Couldn't comprehend what it was. A shape. That was all I knew of it.

As I sat huddled in a toilet stall, one thought persisted to loop through my head. "Their success has killed us all. Their success has killed us all." And it was true. Whatever they had hoped to achieve, had amplified by… thirty. And now it couldn't be controlled, and anyone that had contact with it was murdered indiscriminately.

I didn't want to think about it. Didn't want to think about any of these questions that needed answers. The air felt charged, painfully so. Like it was alive with some sort of vibrations. It was always like this. Always. Stress. Jumping at our shadows, paranoia. Couldn't place our fears. We blamed each other. I saw it. I saw what it was we feared, what they were trying to do. The manner that they succeeded in. Oh god, what did they do? Why would they… do this? What possessed them?

I rest my head on the side of the stall wall, and struggled to force away the feeling from my skin. Forget the shapes working through my mind. The repetition. It would take time. Eventually, I would get better. I would get through this. But only if I survived.

* * *

**I'm writing Weylon as a more vocal character, as a person that could be ruled by rational and in a way isn't very rational regarding his situation.**

**As always, thank you to readers and comments. These chapters remain prototypes, but here's a working copy to get you through to the end of year. I am way behind.**


	4. Chapter 4

Initiative

When I decided that it was time to move, my body refused. I couldn't stay locked in this toilet, shouldn't stay in one place too long. That thing, the shade. It hadn't come for me yet. Had It found someone else? Did It turn on the people in the room, struggling to kill their former suppressor?

They were still holding the thrashing man down. I glanced up, caught by the movement as I weave around the cart of abandoned canister and tables of equipment. My senses were wracked, and divided. I wanted to listen if the shape was still present, pick up on the haunted shrill as it grated through the stale air. The man dressed in his lab coat had large blots of red on his shoulder and waist, and his movements had lessened. I gnawed at my lip as the images came back, the grate and the wings. They were almost beautiful, somehow poetic as my mind conjured jagged pains that worked through my brain.

A harsh cry shot from the room I was beside, and I jerked to the plastic covering dividing us. The doctor was dead. I couldn't find where the weapon had gone, with the patient that had been wielding the knife now perched over the body. He was staring right at me and I gazed back, my eyes probably wide and white like moons in the shadows.

"That was good," he hummed. "I want more."

To my horror, it looked like half the room had turned their focus on me. I stood beside the medical table staring back at them, wanting nothing more than to dissolve into the shadows. To become vapor, and to not be missed. To be nothing. The fear gripped me that they knew me. They recognized me! I couldn't remember if I had seen any of them, my mind too lost on blooming wings. Their faces. They were unrecognizable for who they might have once been. They'll want revenge for that.

"You." One man broke from the group and approached the clear barrier I stood before. "No observers." He stood before me, his eyes murky and diseased somehow saw me. "Come in."

There was no visible way to get into there from this side. That put some relief into me. I glanced around the plastic wall once more, before I gave a slight nod. I would try to avoid that area, avoid getting boxed in with those people.

Lights still swirled within the corridor I had turned from, but the sirens had silenced. I blinked against the harsh lamps when I moved from the shadows. There was a smell in the air, but it could've been me. I didn't need to mull over the lost time, locked in the static. Had to keep moving.

The walls beyond the plastic were eroded, faded paint and plaster crumbling in sections, but the walls were still standing. Plastic covered much of all the surfaces I could see, while newer metal panels had been laid on the floor. Above huge pipes and tubes ran along the ceiling. I remembering seeing something similar somewhere, not long ago. It hurt my head to try and recall this place precisely, and I decided it was best to leave the memory alone. For good, maybe?

I tried the first door I came to, leaning into the cold metal and receiving a wall of warm air and copper. Oh god, I choked on my breath and leaned on the handle as I took in the full room. There was a bed in the center, a small table blank of use. But every odd surface of that room was splattered with rich crimson, so much that I felt a physical force propel me backwards. Shapes churned in my head, infecting my vision with swelling distortions. In the red mess I couldn't identify any piece that might've once been a man. It was just chunky red and full of the hot metallic air. My stomach turned as I smacked my back into the plastic coating of the wall behind me. Oh god… it was still fresh.

The patient I saw, in the hall. He had run into a room. That was him. That's what happened to him! He was smeared all over those walls.

I pushed along the thick plastic, legs heavy and my body stiff. The camera I clutched tightly beside my thigh as I moved to the end of the hall, toward a clear containment door. Sounds came from the other side, muffled by the thick barrier. I felt eased by this, but it felt deceptive. There was no safety in the place. I reached the halls end and peered through the plastic door, to find another corridor filled with a pulsing red light and violent energy. I managed to frame the security agent on the floor, in that nanohazard symbol printed on the door. It was almost comedic, it looked like he was having a wild battle with filthy laundry.

Then the realty sank in, and I drew in a sharp breath. The dirty cloths held a shape, of the man that wore them. He was pinned beneath the person hunched over him, hands locked into something. It was a surreal event to witness, I could pick out the muscles working hard in the agents back as he held the struggling body beneath him. It was only a body. It was nothing.

A few yards from the guard stood another man, in a long stained shirt that came down just past his hips. The figure watched the two on the floor, before he spun away and took off to the other end of the hall. He vanished through a set of clear doors, headed towards dark splatters on the walls beyond. I don't know where he went. A safe place.

The body gave a final twitch and only then did the agent rear back up. He swung on his feet, to an open door in the halls side. The door slammed shut and the man on the floor never got up.

He could be unconscious. He could be asleep. I don't know much of biology or medicine, but the agent hadn't held him under water. He wasn't drowned. He was just... he just stopped breathing. He might get back up. He might not be all the way dead.

I pushed at the door before me, but there was no way to access without… I can't remember. But there was no handle, no way to unlock the door that was visible. No way to hack it, if I had the time. I twisted around, and spun all the way when I saw a corridor extending into gray plaster walls. The plastic covering had been trimmed through, by some sort of tool. I thought very hard on what sort of tool might have done this kind of work. I pushed through the tear, into the decrepit and stale air of the outdated building. The floor creaked under foot, the sound of it comforting and normal. How could the sound of withered floorboards in a place like this sound so normal? The notion of it blew my fragile grasp of comprehension over this place.

I don't know where I was exactly, but I knew for certain I was not under the mountain. There would be walls of drywall and wood between the outside world, and me. Not walls of stone, and metal, and hell. I could find a way out of this. I didn't know where I was, a section of the Asylum I had never seen. But I could figure this out. I could work my way out of this. Just take it slow, be cautious. Listen, and use good judgment. I always had good sense for decision making. I always argued with Lisa over petty things, but we didn't always agree. We'd come around though, we compromised. I could compromise. I'd be all right.

As the hall darkened, I recalled the camera. The night feature. I raised the visor to my face and looked into the green tint. The hall came to an uneventful end. A gurney crammed against a door. Plexiglas siding was framed around the warped door, and I debated on poking at it to learn if there was a way to crawl through.

Until I heard that sound.

I slammed into the door at my left, twisting at the handle as I fought to get it open, get away. Was that its sound, the shrieking rasp, or was it me? The door didn't come easy, but it did snap open. Of its own accord, and I managed a fearful squawk as an arm thrust out and snagged the front of my shirt. The scream of the shade was forgotten as I went stumbling over my feet, forward into a room that reeked of fecal waste and rot. My eyes burned as I swayed on my feet, but no longer being tugged about I was able to keep upright and give the room a hasty scan. The blood ran cold under my skin.

"Our peeping Tom."

Cabinets and long counters lined the walls, some boxes and left over furniture was scattered across the floor. I could make out the frail tint of skin as the only light of the room reflected off the sheen of sweat. I couldn't count how many were here. Too many. Under the light, to the side of the room was the medical table with the dead doctor upon it.

I took a step back and bumped into a warm body. I jerked around as the person (who probably dragged me in) was now poised before the door, arms crossed. He watched me with eyes sunken into his face, most of his cheeks and nose were replaced by rotten flesh.

"Come to join our therapy session." I turned to the table, where a patient stood behind the corpse. The individual looked unmarred, almost normal if not for his bald held and the veins protruding along his sleeveless arms.

I reached a hand to my eye as pain rippled. The flashes of images, frail membrane webs touching the tip of my nose. I took a breath and smelled the blood, the men standing in this hot room with only the light. I felt my body back in the chair, lost. Loosing time. Everything was slipping through my fingers. My life, my sanity, the time I had left. There wasn't much of it. I closed my eyes and begged something, someone, to let me see the next day.

"Here, take the blade," said a voice beyond my eyes. I decided to look. It was impossible to stand here and block out the world, block Them out. "Dig around in our friend here, get a little red on your hands." Hesitantly, I took a step. When no one said or moved toward me, I took another. Soon, I was before the patient as he thrust the blade down into the chest of the corpse. I flinched, when the sturdy bone above the heart muscle caved under the impact.

"It's always healthy to express yourself," he sneered at my face. I ignored everyone else. My mind felt numb. Blood in my nose, dilated wings swelled in my eyes, the cold taste of fear in my throat. I tried to put something in my head, a thought. Something to react on. An idea to drag my awareness back from the scene before me. So I wouldn't be responsible for my actions. "You keep it bottled up too long and you might do something you regret."

My hand twitched and raised. I got my palm open and extended, when I stopped. What was I doing? WHAT WAS I DOING? I mumbled something and drew back. "I… no."

"No?" he echoed. The patient yanked the blade from the soggy, red chest. "You're one of those? Too good for the likes of us?" He managed to sound disgusted on a completely sane level, as he began jamming the knife down and up out of the doctors chest. Over and over and over. "Think you're different. Something special. There are no observers here." I stood silent and still as he continued to puree bone and muscle tissue, until the entire surface of the chest was a lumpy mush of black fluid and purple tissue.

I didn't know this doctor. He must've been stationed in an entirely different branch of Mount Massive. One I had no business or contact with. I swallowed, and raised my eyes to the patient when he paused to observe his work.

"Now." He took the knife and slammed the blunt end onto the table, the tremor rattled in my ears and I felt cold droplets on my exposed arms. So cold and wet. "Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind."

I crossed my hands in front of me, trying to crack my knuckles against the camera. I jerked away when the lone man that was poised to the side this whole time, turned slowly and moved to the corner of the room. Beside him, I could see a door coated in the light from the only lamp in the room. I flexed my hands, my unoccupied hand gripped at the thin material of the clothing I wore. I could hear the plastic of the camera creak as I clutched it, tight.

No one said a word more. None of them made a motion to remove me. They thought I was one of them. They thought… thought I was a patient. That I was brought here, same as they were. They didn't know who I could have been. Who I was. The treatment. What did they see in me, that made them accept me?

The words chanted in my head, '_Gooble gobble. Gooble gobble. One of us, one of us._' I wanted to laugh. Fall to the floor clutching my sides and laugh until someone slit my throat. Or beat my head until my brain matter oozed from my ears. Or did I want to cry? To scream at them, '_I'm not crazy! It was a misunderstanding! I was trying to help! I swear, I only wanted to help!_'

If I wasn't condemned yet, then those words would not salvage me.

I shuffled towards the door, trying not to avert my eyes from its surface and reveal that I was sane. That I was still something of a human, despite what they saw. Whatever of me they accepted. I winced as the shapes swam into my vision, and the knot in my gut twisted. It'll get better once I'm out of this room. Away from the tension, the rage. The paranoia.

I pull the door open and revel in the stale scent of the hall. Walls exposed, walls that were not saran wrapped and filled with wires. The small corridor was dark, some light braved the shades at its end. I would head for that. My foot caught on the large sheet of plywood left on the floor as I shuffled forward. I could see the silhouette of a bed, and a few of these outdated heaters lined the hall. I raised the camera, and checked through the visor for shapes I might've—

"The fuck are you trying to go?" The face appeared right in the visor. Hard, broken skin dried over old wounds. I only saw blood and cracks when I gagged on the shriek in my throat and stumbled backwards, onto my butt. I dragged myself backwards, the battery and notepad shifted in my sleeve and my concern went there in fear I'd lose my only possessions. I didn't register the threat approaching, had barely taken note of the steady footfalls coiling around me.

He stood over me. I couldn't see his face with the light plastered at his back, framing him in a dark dangerous shape. A shadow. The memory flashed through my head. A shape reared over my cowering form, followed by pain and the taste of hot salt and copper in my mouth. The constricting pain felt new in my head, and I made a small sound as the agony rolled my brain flat. I was still lost in the Rorschach's, when I felt his fist snap across my brow.

Run. Escape.

I rolled aside as his leg shot out, and kept going to hit the metal frame I had dropped beside. There was an resounding snap, and a curse from the man poised over me. I didn't chance a look, I rolled to my feet and pushed off. I pumped my legs under me, whatever balance I thought would hold me up failed I nearly smashed into the gurney beside the wall.

"Come back here!" The patient sounded close to my back.

I pushed by the bed, searching with my eyes the end of the corridor twisting around me. The door before me was boarded up, and if that wasn't enough a bed was left before that door. At my right was a door, the dark within seemed to be leeching around the side left partially open. I crashed against the worn wood and kept going and smashed into an obstruction that felt like polished wood and old metal. I fumbled with the camera while the panic strangled me, I thrashed about in the small space feeling for the way through. I had stumbled into open air before the night vision was on, revealing the room in all its grainy glory. I could hear my pursuer curse and picked up on the noisy shudder of furniture, when he had a graceful collision with the obstruction. I kept going, feeling with my free arm as I scanned what was visible of the room. I heard thumping and pained sobs. Oh no, damnit! Someone was in here too?

I spun around as I felt my way around a pile of desks and cabinets. There were other items left over in this room – tall wood shelves, boxes, broken tables – but nothing I could use to slow down the patient. He shrieked profanities… or, was that someone else? Someone just as dangerous?

My foot got tangled on a tattered sheet, and I nearly plowed into a figure that jabbed and swooped hard blows onto a withering mass of body parts beneath it. Another patient beating someone, I didn't get a good look, couldn't tell if it was a doctor or something else.

I kept moving. Not far from the abuse stood an open door, in the wall. I don't know if I was still being followed, I didn't want the patient to finish killing whoever and then target me next. I ducked inside and dragged the handle of the door after me.

The closet was large and lit by a single bulb burning yellow near the high ceiling. Counters were lined close to my sides and glassed in shelves had been fixed to the high walls. Medical shelves with glass doors, the contents were gone and the fronts shattered. Another door sat on the opposite side of the room, but it was jammed tight and some tables were stacked before it. A clock hanging on the wall read three, forty-five, but it was still and silent. I turned back to the door when the sounds beyond it ceased. I didn't believe I had gotten away. I wasn't safe until I was far from this place, but for now I'd settled on moving to another area of facility entirely.

I fumbled with the camera in my hands, nearly dropping it because my shoulders were shaking too damn hard. My whole body quivered and I had not caught my breath yet. The walls reflected the sounds of my distress, and I looked to them seeking anything. Salvation, a weapon, any meaningless tool to instill confidence. False confidence, but it might help me to run faster.

The vent on the high wall was hanging by a screw. I stuck the camera strap between my teeth as I clambered onto the countertop beneath it. I pick at the vent, trying to pull or push the metal panel aside. The screw popped out of the crumbling wall and bounced off my forehead, the vent fell thereafter clattering at my toes and crashing to the floor below. I wretched myself towards the door fearful the sound would draw one or both of the violent patients to the overlooked room. When for a long minute there was no sound and the walls reserved the tense quiet, I turned back to the open passage above me.

I was not a very athletic person. I played sports with the boys, went on long walks with my family. But high cardio for an extended duration of time was not my cup of tea. I wrote script and stared at a screen all day. My brain was the muscle I worked most. I had believed that it would be all I needed in my entire life.

I jumped up and gripped the edges of the vent. My body hung and my fingertips bore into the sharp metal edge. I snorted and took a breath between my teeth, some of the dust that lifted clung to my tongue. I thought over my options. A leisure activity I forgot was none existent in this place. Bright flares twisted in my vision, becoming red then draining into whites. There could be another way out. The patients could be gone, and I could try the door that was on the other side of the hall. I bypassed it, because the door that was ajar looked more appealing than a door that was closed. It might've led no where.

My eyes stung, but not from the dust. I can't do this. I can't… I won't be able to get out of here.

I released the vent, and fell backwards onto my butt. The sharp jolt wound up my spine, and I tensed as my muscles relaxed. I fiddled with the items in my sleeve, and once more checked the door I had come through. Not a sound. They could be gone, or they killed each other. I rubbed at my eyes and moved off the countertop. I pulled the camera out of my teeth and quietly slipped towards the door. I tuched the handle, expecting to hear shouts come through to my ears. But it was silent. As if the world beyond the door had vanished. The entire ecosystem that once thrived, lived, and died was now gone. I turned the knob and pushed the door open, I raised the camera to my face.

A sharp grip took hold of my wrist on the door handle. I blinked as the hand tried to pull, fighting to drag me back into the shadows and death. I jerked back and knocked the edge of the door over my attackers wrist. I heard a grunt and the tight hold released. The door shut with a clack as I sprang back, the handle ripped out of my hand when I neglected to release it. As I stood waiting, the handle rattled and twisted.

"Come outta there you little prick!"

I spun away practically taking flight up the cabinet. I tossed the camera up into the vent and grabbed the edges, actually locked on with my fingers and hoisted my entire body upward. My bare feet scrapped at the plaster as I propelled myself up the rest of the way in, until I was on my stomach scooting in the remainder of the way. I remember to snatch the camera, somewhere in the dark near me. I looked into the visor and the green tint as I scrambled along, leaving the hoarse voice behind as it screamed into my memory.

I was all right, I made it. I didn't know I could do that! I flew. I practically flew! A grin was tugging at the corners of my lips, it was painful but it's been how long since I actually grinned like a human being? I hope I didn't look as psychotic as I—

"…bad idea. We get out of here through reception and let Murk Tactical clean it up."

I froze up when the low voice slid into my ear. Where was that coming from? No one saw me, whoever….

"If they get here in time." The voice was meek, strained. I slipped my knees up under me and shuffled towards a light in the bottom of the metal passage I was in. My heart was racing. What if… what if I hit a weak spot and fell through? Who was speaking, I need to know. It could be patients. Sounded like patients. "We need help now. If we get them on the radio, the National Guard could be here within…."

"We don't even know the radio works," barked the other voice. I peered through the slants in the vent, into a room of discarded furniture, scattered books flattened into the floor, and an overturned wheelchair shoved up under a table. Two people stood beneath the vent, a security agent in the usual blue uniform, and a quivering man dressed in a white shirt and slacks. The civilian was smudged with dirt or blood, and his shirt tail was ripped at his side. The agent looked in much better condition, it didn't take me long to understand why.

Camera. I had a camera, I should probably use it. Where was the record button?

"It's short wave," the meek man insisted. He brushed the agents outstretched arm away. "If the prison's got electricity they've got signal. And the lights are on."

Prison? The Asylum had a prison for the criminally insane, the committed too dangerous to leave with untrained orderlies or the nonviolent patients. I shuddered over the recollection, that there was nothing civil or 'professional' about this facility. Lies. My head ached. I soon saw that the camera was already on record, but the battery in the device itself was already low.

"Murkoff has it under control," the agent hissed right into the man's face. I wanted to laugh, the place was falling apart, and the people along with it.

"Yeah, I noticed," the guy snapped back. "We need to get to that radio."

"Outside help doesn't come without outside attention." The security agent pushed closer to the man and tilt his head, as though speaking to an idiot child. "You want to take responsibility for every legally shaky thing you did on the Murkoff company payroll? I know I don't." With that bit of warning, the agent turned and walked out of sight. The other guy followed, pressing his argument once more. They were both out of sight.

"It's too late to worry about that." The voice grew distant, but I could clearly take out the undertones. The restrained fear, the desperation. "This just has to stop."

"You're scared. You're not thinking straight." I began moving, carefully along the thin metal floor. I wasn't making too much noise, but I concluded they were too caught up with each other to take notice. "Let me make something clear." The agents voice took a dark, cold tone. "You try to radio outside for help, I'm gonna give you a whole new something to be scared of."

There was a sliver of silence, and I thought that they must have already left. I passed over another vent, and could see below the shoulder of the civilian. "Are you threatening me?"

"Yes."

Not another word was uttered. Their footfalls grew softer as I waited. The room below became much larger, hungry somehow. I tested my movement, cautious if one had remained behind, the researcher. He looked like one of the researchers from the advanced team, he knew to be scared. The room swallowed up the reverberations from the vent, but did not utter back. I was alone again, and safe. For the time.

I became bolder as I moved through the tight vent. My breathing was amplified by the hard walls that boxed me in, and I felt the edges of claustrophobia trickle in. I only felt eased whenever I spied another slice of light through the openings in the vents I crawled over. I thought of trying to smash one open and getting into the room where the security operative and the researcher were, but it didn't seem the better idea. I paused beside one of the openings of light and just lingered by the comforting glow from the room below.

I mulled over what the researcher said. The prison. A radio at the prison. Probably an outdated CB, but if it was old it could work. It was built to last, built to hold out.

"_There's a radio. In the prison. Short wave. If it's electronic I can make it talk, make it work for me. There's hope, Lisa. I'm coming home to you. My mistake was subtlety, like you always said. I thought leaking information to a few journalists was the safer way. I didn't want the spotlight, the attention. Murkoff is dangerous, I know that. I thought I had to be subtle for your sake, Lisa, for the boys._

_But I should have exposed what Murkoff is doing to the world, I should have shouted to anyone and everyone. I can't die. Not before I reach the radio. They can't cover this up now. It's too broken, too dangerous._"

In the poor light of the vent, I reread the note on the previously page. My desperate words came back to haunt me. So much I should have done. So much more I could have done. I let them do this. I tried to stop it, but I didn't try hard enough.

I stuffed the notepad back in my sleeve, and rolled the edge up a bit more to keep the small items I had taken up, from falling out. The vent felt endless as I scooted through the tight walls. The night vision didn't hardly help, but I could see where the edge twisted and where the heavy grates were that kept people from using these as pathways. I was fortunate the grate at the very end had been removed, or rotted off.

I peered down into the dark room the vent ended in. Metal bed frames stacked on the furthest side, some sort of metal cabinet was left beside a door. There was not a whole lot to view, and no visible path. I fumbled with the options of the camera, turning off the enhanced night vision by accident and suffered a small panic attack when I forgot how to turn it back on. What was I doing? If I wasn't carful I was going to screw this up too. I muttered to myself, until I finally hit something and the green tint appeared in the visor. I was able to locate the zoom feature, and scanned the room more thoroughly before I just dropped in. I was debating on returning to the other vents, above the bright room the researcher and the security operative had their disagreement.

Below, a patient was huddled in a corner. His legs drawn tight over his head, and his arms wrapped over his knees. At the distance, even with the zoom, I couldn't tell if he was shaking as bad as he looked, or if I was the one trembling. I didn't delude myself into the belief that he was harmless.

I shut the enhanced vision off to conserve what remained of the battery, and remained in the opening of the vent staring down. My knees ached with my weight on them, the thin skin pressed between bone and icy metal. There were numb spots in my toes. I needed shoes. I needed better clothing to ward off this chill. The vent creaked as my weight shifted, and the still air coiled, swirled through the dark void. What was I doing? I was going somewhere. Not here. Where was I? I shuddered, and felt the pulsing move through my mind. Elevator grate and the skulls, the X-rays. I was sick with something bad, I picked up something. Christ, what was I going to do?

The noise. Churning vibrations working through the walls, grating against the resistance. Shapes moving that I felt were there, just couldn't see. My mind haunted by shadows, the paranoia now had an identity. It made it real, gave it purpose. I shouldn't be here. I can't stay here, and just wait around for It to find me.

I only recalled the person that was in the room, while I was shuffling across the same room I had dropped down into. I shut off the night vision and listened, but there was no indication that the patient was even there. I knew I saw someone. I was certain. But as I stood in the middle of a dark room, trying to ignore my own heartbeat. I wasn't so sure anymore. How could I be so uncertain of what my own eyes saw? I'm losing it. I'm scared, not thinking straight. Oh god.

The camera gave a soft chirp as I restored the night enhancement. The only door out had a cabinet in front of it. I crept toward it, and examined the base, the legs. I stared at it for a while longer, not seeing the obstruction itself, just staring at an impassible wall. I was working to see beyond, what dangers awaited me.

I gave the container a push and felt the floor grind under it. I had to move this. I stuck the camera strap between my teeth and braced my shoulder to the grated side, and pressed the sore pads of my feet into the cold cement. At first the cabinet held, not because it was heavy, but because it was stubborn. I took a breath, shifted my footing and pressed until the metal legs scrapped across the floor. There was a sound, between my pause as I adjusted my grip and pushed the obstruction aside. Once I decided it was beyond the door frame, I took the camera and raised it before my eyes.

The man framed in the green tint shocked me. I crashed back against the door and raised my free arm to defend myself, but he didn't move. I squinted at him as I felt around for the door and the handle at my back, the thud of hollow wood clambered over the walls. The shock that the doorknob may have been busted rippled through me, as did the realization that I was trapped. The patient watched my slow panic as it throttled me. I couldn't be in here a moment longer. He'll beat me. Break my bones, rip my muscles.

I choked out a sound when my palm slapped against the cool metal handle, before I yanked the door open and backpedaled out. When I was just out of the doorframe, the door snaps shut and I could hear a low _Grinding_. I thought it was the man on the other side, replacing the blockade to the door but as I moved back, I could hear it still.

In the room with me.

I revolved in place as the eerie scraping roved somewhere deep within the walls. In the thick pipes bolted to the ceiling above, in vents and crawl spaces I couldn't fathom. Somewhere deep, but not far. I could see no space or item in the room with me now that could cause such sounds. There were only a few broken or overturned tables, a wheelchair, and book shelves and tattered books melting into the floor.

I imagined Freddy Kruger in some distant boiler room running his claws over walls and the cement, as soft jolly chuckles rolled out of him. Slow, methodical dragging as sparks flared at his palms. My skin crawls, the scratching could be in the room just next door working out a way to me. I moved beside an overturned table and knelt down, just to catch my breath. The room was large, well lit, but the sounds. Would anyone else hear them?

The doors in the surrounding walls were barred shut, but offered no solace. To the side of the room extended a short corridor consumed by shadows. The lamps had burnt out, but at its end gleams the bright box of the light through an open door. Briefly, I recalled I had little idea where I was headed, or where I was yet even. I was not under the mountain, I reminded. A hot coal of excitement burned somewhere in my cold body, warming me briefly before it was snuffed out. I had a plan of direction, shortly ago. I was distracted by images, white hot lamps burning out my eyes. I knew where I was going. I couldn't forget, I had an idea. There was a place I could find help. Help….

Notebook. There's a notebook I could review, I'm sure I wrote it down there. I did do that. To keep me straight. That's all the notebook was, my tether to the world. It's all I had. I set the camera on my lap, and took the small pad of papers from my sleeve and flipped through them. I scanned through the pages of short cut commands, script someone (probably dead) wrote. I located one page with my jittery scratch in the paper, but couldn't bear to reread it. I wrote down my thoughts, my plan.

Prison. The prison had a radio. That's where I would go, it's all that I had. This place needed help, someone needed to know. I would scream out for anyone, bring in people that could fix this, or destroy it. Something. What was happening now, it couldn't be left to its own devices. There could be people, victims like me, searching for a way out.

I paused before I took the old battery out of the camera. This was risky, if I didn't do this right I could just screw it up. Unless I found a flashlight, I wouldn't have a chance. But if I didn't, if I kept going with a camera low on power I was dead anyway. I pulled the battery from the cameras back. My heart dropped when everything in the device turned dark all at once. No power. It just shut off. I took the spare from my sleeve and slipped it into the slot. There was no problem, it slipped right into its slot and after a moment nothing happened.

Shit.

I sniffled as I worked at the dead functions of the camera. No. No-no-No! What did I do? How did I fuck this up?! Every single time! Every fucking time—

The camera chirped, as I held down one of the gray buttons on its side. Power button. You had to turn it back on, because it was sort of switched off. Of course. I laughed a little at my panic, but the sound was dull. An octave above death. I searched through the features of the camera, assuring myself that all that I needed was still in order. The battery was nearly charged, good. Just needed something for the night feature. My eyes in the dark places.

I checked my sleeve and the notepad stuffed there, before rising to my feet. The room I had been hidden in was now silent, the sounds or whatever had moved off. As I skimmed over my surroundings one final time, for anything I missed, it came back to me. This was… this was where the two were speaking. The security operative and the meek researcher. I knew it didn't matter at this point, if they were gone somewhere else. It unsettled me that I crashed into the same room I had tried to avoid, even if it didn't matter. As long as I wasn't trapped.

I stood at the edge of the dark corridor and gazed back to the door I had come through. I wanted to make sure. I knew the answer, but I wanted to confirm it for my own senses, a sort of conclusion. I returned to the door and tried the handle. The knob turned, but the door thudded against the cabinet now braced to it. I stood and stared at the old worn door, and let all of it sink in.

The patient was hiding here. He was hiding from them. My emotions were mixed, I wasn't sure what to feel from this revelation. I already knew the security detail were pricks. But maybe, they were just evil.

I was overtaken by the swirling sensations, the weight of helplessness of being lost and having no one to help me. No other human to speak with, whom wouldn't strangle me even if they knew that I was still sane. They were damaged by the panic, and anyone with the capacity would sooner kill me than ask my name. It would just be easier to kill someone than risk it. I think… I could understand. But the idea of killing another human being, even in desperation or self-defense… I don't know. It was beyond my moral self preservation. I had survived despite the Engine, I was still me. If I did it now, if I let myself kill when I could run. It wouldn't be _Me_ when I finally escaped.

If I escaped.

I pause and look to the camera in my hand. I raised it up and activated the night feature as I moved through the corridor. I didn't need it, really. But there were a few—

A hiss, and strangled noise of rasping breezed by my face. I stumble back and drop to my knees, smashing one into the hard cement floor. I didn't see what was there, there was nothing. I thought I saw It. It was there, but it kept going. It was gone now. It was gone.

I took a breath and swallowed. It had just gone on, didn't stop. Wouldn't kill me. I was shaking hard as I crawled forward and leaned just past the frame of the door, and looked into a metal corridor with plastic walls. Plastic covered walls. To my right was a fallen patient and a clear door into the next corridor, bright strobe flashing in the ceiling. It took a while for my brain to make the connection, that the corridor I was looking over to was the one I first came through. I couldn't recall how all of this began, where I started. It was a blur of fear, pain, and drowning sorrow. I just wanted to get out, that's all I kept thinking.

Then I set my hand on my rumpled sleeve, where the notebook was. No. I had to call for help. That was my only hope. If I died here, no one would know. No one would care. Another corpse to stack on the pile. Another body to burn and forget. A lost statistic in the company payroll. I suppressed a strange sound, and looked to the hall that continued to my left. There was a high probability the guard and civilian went that way. I don't know where they were headed, I couldn't remember. But there was a door a little ways to my left, beside the corpse.

I used the doorframe to pull myself up and moved on my unsteady legs, trying not to look on the body. I leaned on the wall as I struggled with the handle, but the door was locked. I gave a few more tugs before I spun away, turned along the wall and stood staring down on the patient.

He was… dead. I had watched him die. Watched the life get ripped from his body. I— he looked so strange. Eyes bulging from his skull, large marks left at his throat. His skin was so pale, but that might have been from the therapy. I didn't want to look at him, but I couldn't avert my eyes either. I shouldn't look away anymore.

I recalled the camera in my hand and lifted it, giving it a short glance before my eyes went to the patient. "I'm— I'm so sorry." I raised the camera and let the visor fill with the cold corpse. "Murkoff did this," I whispered. "This is what Murkoff has done."

When I felt that enough was there, that I had taken enough, I pass the corpse and began through the hall. I press a hand to my eye as the images, the horrible shreds of insanity cut through my brain. It might've been caused by the pulsing red light set in the ceiling above. Or it might've been the terror that curled up in me as I approached the mangled and broken bodies at the corridors end. Dark crimson spread over walls, the pipes bolted to the ceiling overhead, red mist sprayed over plastic walls. These were the dark blotches I had seen. The patient that ran, that came through here. I remember now. I could understand. There was no end to the death and chaos that roamed these sterile halls. The only thing that could survive here was insanity and whatever it left behind.


	5. Chapter 5

**Men Behind Glass**

The purge gates were designed to contain, or prevent contamination of something. Whatever it was Murkoff had inadvertently unleashed on its people. I didn't understand fully what it was. It kept coming back, the dreams. Therapy. The Engine. The shapes warped and crawled behind my eyes, and I nearly fell to my knees as the pain lumbered through my brain. I wanted to wretch my mind off it, all of what was done. Forget what I had endured. I looked to the end of the hall at my side, the bodies torn to pieces, blood sprayed over the ceiling above. Damn. What had they been trying to do? What good was any of this!?

I buckled forward and gagged, but nothing came up. There was nothing in my system. Just sour breath and misery. It felt terrible to have the urge to purge something in me, anything. But nothing came up, and I was left with the tremors and the jagged pain in my skull. I spat the thick foam off my lips and moved to my feet, falling again. I caught myself by the edge of the wall and used it to brace me up as I kept going. The plastic crinkled under my weight, and I focused on the sound as somewhere in the distance sirens warned of the damage already done. I was staring at the red smears of the walls and floor, slowly drying in the cool air. Which way had It been headed? Where could It be now? Anywhere, I decided. Anywhere near.

The door that blocked the corridor off, was gone. Just gone. I crept through listening to the hounding call. I didn't need that bearing down on me, I needed to focus. It was hard to focus. I swayed on my feet a bit as I left the support of the wall and moved around the large puddle of gore, I had to cover my mouth with my free hand even if it didn't stifle the smell. It wasn't fresh, but it was still so very wet and glistened under the lights above. My head whipped to the left, beyond the corner of the intersecting corridor to a door. A hard smack from the other side threatened to tear it off its frame, but the metal held. I didn't stop me from taking a step back and stepping into the icy fluid that had gathered on the floor.

I forgot about the door and stared down at my foot, and the black liquid that stained the spaces between my toes. My sense of humanity knew this was wrong, but another piece of my mind, something that had been dredged up by the Engine knew it couldn't be helped. This place was hell incarnate. My attention returned to the door when another thud came, and a crack formed along the side beside the doors handle. But the sounds ceased, and it took me a while to come back to myself. The air that held my shoulders was cold and full of blood.

I was thinking of a truck, warm laughter. Good memories. The humid bathroom and the scent of soap, foggy mirrors. Kids laughter, and the thud of someone jumping onto the floor. The vibrations terrorized the house and we'd yell at them to stop the rough housing. I wish I hadn't yelled.

I coughed as I inhaled, as though taking a breath after being submerged too long. The metallic fragrance stained my tongue and I retched, fearing I'd fall to heaves again. I moved towards the silent door, and the battery that was left beside the broken corpse. His shape was hard to make out, twisted the way it was and buried in the long stains that trailed down plastic walls. I picked up the battery and moved to put it in my sleeve, but I stopped and looked at the corpse.

He didn't need his clothing anymore. Blood drenched and small rips along his chest and legs, but it was better than what I had on. I reasoned. I could just wear it over what I had on, but the clothing I wore was foul. I needed something cleaner. And shoes.

I took his belt off and got halfway down unbuttoning his shirt, when I stopped and recoiled. What the hell was I doing? I can't do this. I can't do this! I can't wear the clothing a man was killed in.

I can't.

There had to be clothing somewhere else. In the dorms, the spare uniforms or a lab coat. There were lockers all around that held the spare shrouds in the event of an accident. I'd find something that wasn't gut riddled and someone didn't die in. It just… it creeped me out. I didn't want to wandered around looking like a zombie in this place. The shoes, they probably didn't fit me anyway. But that was a petty excuse.

I folded my hands over my knee where I knelt, and gazed at the unresponsive body. I wanted to say something. Talk to him, I guess. Say I'm sorry? I didn't. I just shuffled away, but not before grabbing the belt I had taken. I'd wear that. Maybe it had something in it I could use.

I adjusted the belt around my waist, and found that I had lost a good deal of weight. I had no pants loops to secure the left over space of the belt, so spun it around so it wouldn't be in my way. There was nothing useful in the small pockets on its side, not even a pair of handcuffs. There was a picture of a naked woman (I was married, I tossed that). I had a knife now, a tiny pathetic little knife I could cut thread with, (or my wrists). I found a suitable pocket to stash the batteries, and another space on the side to secure my notepad. I wanted it close by, where I might brush it accidentally. Its presence helped keep things lined up in my mind. I needed the reassurance. A little slice of confidence that even if I didn't make it, someone might find this and understand that I had been silenced by the cooperation.

Hopefully someone would find my words.

I stepped carefully over the slick blood on the floor as I took the corridor on the left. A doctor had fallen, head twisted backwards and blood. Was there that much blood in the human body?

I glanced over the cameras fixed to the walls around this portion of the hall, and wondered who would view this footage? Probably someone with not a lot of patience, but a heft amount of clout. They'll watch this mess unfold and start rolling the calculations, the zero's involved. And they will be disappointed with the company, and the time wasted and the money lost. But never upset with the lives lost, or the families ruined. What did those things have to do with the company?

I continued, toward a door left open around the bend of the hall. The interior was dark, but I could see the dull light framed at the far end of a wall. A window, but not to the outside. The pale lamps of the purge gate burned through the cloudy Plexiglas, and I could make out a figure on the other side. I stood in the doorway for a brief second trying to decide if what I was seeing was there, of another distortion.

The figure, the person gawked back at me as though he were having the same mental debate with himself. I wondered if I looked as ragged and beaten as he did. Or was I looking into a mirror?

I stepped into the shadows, and the figure came to life. He leaned against the window separating us and thumped against the shatter proof substance with a muffled, distant sound.

"Help me, please! I'm a doctor! I need to get home to my…" His voice trailed off as I moved closer, into the soft light that escaped the room he was stuck in. It was the purge chamber. Somehow, he had gotten stuck in there. "You're not security. I was…" I looked down at the ugly jumper I was wearing, as the guy seemed to scrutinize my appearance. A note of recognition hit his eyes, and he renewed his plea. "I'm a patient like you. I stole these clothes from a… dead body I found. You gotta let me out of here. Please." He indicated the desk before me covered with papers, and a broken monitor. There was a panel with a large button on it, and a cord leading from that to somewhere. "Just push the button, open the door. We can get out of here together."

He sounded so optimistic, or hopeful. For someone who had decided I was most likely a patient, or insane, or any sort of dangerous. It frightened me to think he was very willing to join with me, if it meant escaping. It was only his benefit he was thinking of, but… what about me? Was he really a patient? The man was coated with blood, his story might be true? But where did that leave me? He had given me some consideration, and I was giving him a chance to think. To plan.

I had to get through the purge chamber. If I opened the doors, he might just run away. If he thought I was dangerous, he wouldn't wait for me to catch up. But a question I had avoided hit me.

Had he killed someone already?

Without giving it another thought, I pressed my palm to the dial to reactivate the gate. The emotion to streak through his eyes was so vivid, it struck a cord in me. He could have been someone normal, someone that just wanted out like me. Trying to get home… Home to who?

The doors at either end of the room hissed open. I jerked and looked to the side, and the man behind the glass noted my expression. He whirled about and saw what had caught my focus.

"Doctor." A patient stood in the doorway of the purge gate. He jabbed a finger in the man's direction accusingly.

"No, no!" The doctor, patient, whatever he thought, tried to get away from the man that lunged into the room and took him by the shoulders of his shirt. Even if the doctor had gotten away, the doors to the purge chamber had already shut and the thick pumps over head began misting the room with their chemical decontamination. I shuddered as I watched the patient heft the other man, whoever he was, up by his scalp. The doctor had no hair to grip, the patient seemed to dig his fingernails into the skin of his scalp and slammed his face into the think Plexiglas.

I winced when a dull crack came through. That wasn't the plastic giving. It was a skull cracking under impact. I took a step back. At the time I wasn't aware, I was lost to the moment and diving deeper into dark places burrowed out of my mind. I had the camera clutched between my palms like some sacred totem and angled forward, to take in what I was seeing. Eating up the action and the pain, the death and the only truth of this place.

"All of you," the patient snarled. "Doctors and liars." He raised the doctor against the window once more shrieking as he slammed the face again, and again. Over and over. When would he stop? Was he able to stop?

He let the body flop to the ground. I felt the blood drain from me, out into the cold air. The patient fell to his knees and brought his fits down, his fingers. He unleashed his fury on that corpse until blood specks were rolling down the glass, and a thick sleeve of red had worked up his elbows. He continued scream, to accuse everything that had been done to him was because of the one he released his rage onto.

I went back to that room with the patients, and the doomed doctor. I remembered his words as if he were right before me now, reminding me of this lesson. "…_keep it bottled up, you might do something you regret_."

I could be on the other side of that glass. That could be me pummeled and brought early to oblivion. I'm not there, oh god. That could have been me. I could have been dead hours ago. Why am I still alive?

The patient rose to his feet and gave me a last glimpse before he turned away, calm and placid. I didn't think it was possible for him to stop. My heart sank as the purge gates opened. He would come for me now. I had nowhere to go, no safe place. But the patient didn't give the other doors his time. He kept moving, and continued out the other side. I thought for a moment he was headed for me, but many minutes passed I stood staring at the bloody window and I heard no footsteps. I was all right. I was safe behind the glass.

The door to the room was open, and the blood stained corridor beyond it. I stumbled out of the door trying to work through my feelings, trying to understand this mystery. I was still alive because I was damned. Somehow Murkoff was saving me, at the same time trying to destroy me. I would've been dead long ago had they not thrown me away, if they hadn't tried to forget me in a room. The oppressed had inherited the hell they were brought to. It was fitting. Deranged and fitting, just like everything else in this place.

I moved across the thick blood puddle, and heard that sound. THAT sound. For a moment my mind went blank as images, AGH GOD, swirling pulses of light and membrane. It was here! IT was here! It found me!

I dashed around the corner, nearly skidding on the layer of gore wet on my feet. I made sure my grip was firm on the camera as I ran. At the halls end there was a shape huddled at the base of... a door. A dark mist swirling, growing larger near the blocked end of the hall where the patient had been strangled. It could CRAWL UNDER DOORS.

Purge gate! The purge gate decontaminated! The Project! Purge gates were designed to keep the project contained!

It was a loose theory, but the research team swore by the gates. They worshipped them. The red flash the strobe light overhead swept over me as I scrapped by the corner, not feeling the pain in my shoulder as I kept running. It was open! It would be open! I opened it! The doors were not, but I nearly plowed into them when they activated on my approached. I kept going and crashed into the other side of the small chamber, when the shielding snapped into my path.

I pressed myself down into the corner, furthest from the mangled body, and stared at the doors as the shielding swept aside. I panted hard and waited for the window to hiss open and allow the thing to enter, so I too could join the endless stains that coated these walls.

But the shielding didn't budge, except for the panels in my back. I scooted back as they parted and watched, believing now death would take me. But my expectations were never made real, and I watched through the green tint of the visor as the dark shape faded and dispersed to some by degrees as it glides away into the dark distance of the corridor. To places elsewhere, to other prey.

I heaved a breath and turned my eyes to the doctor, the patient, the bat. A thing that tried to be both but couldn't decide which. It was worse now that I could see him, view without the ugly tint of the window with the poor light, his mangled body. I feel myself loosing touch, just not caring about what I was seeing. It was too much, and I was damaged and exhausted through the span of time I had been left to myself. Alone in myself. Everyone I thought I knew, was dead or getting there. I might be the only person left alive, that was still sane.

Could I really say I was sane at this point? God, I don't know. I doubt I was stable enough to keep track of… I touched the pocket on my side, that held the notebook. Ah… I had this. I had something.

"_I'd never seen a man die before today. Never seen a dead body outside of a coffin. Dozens today, murdered and worse. I looked into one man's eyes as another tore him to pieces. Claimed he was a doctor, then saw the rags they've dressed me in and changed his story, said he was a patient. Could have been either. They're all crazy. All sick. No real difference between them now. The therapy is spreading. And what am I? I watched this man die and thought, "it's not me, thank god."_

_I know I'll die someday. I don't want to be murdered._"

The page before, reminded I was headed to the Prison area. I needed to summon help, call in people that wouldn't die or try and kill me. I had to keep moving. Jesus, I had to keep moving and try to stay alive. And sane. I don't think I could do both, I didn't want to choose one over the other either. No choices. No options.

I climbed to my feet, determined not to crawl up the frame. I needed to get on my feet and move of my own accord. If I didn't try, I would die. Keep my thoughts together, keep my feet steady. I couldn't remove myself from the nasty sensation of the blood drying along the edges of my feet or between my toes. I might've already lost it.

It was more plastic coated corridor, but much of the wall behind the barrier had slants of two by fours, to support the material. As I moved towards stacks of crates at the halls side, I heard a voice. A shout from someone outside of the corridor.

"Another one's coming!"

I made it around the corner and saw a reception block, office entrance with desks and chairs, some overturned filing cabinets. And numerous bodies lain out, blood drenched. So much blood.

"He's one of them. Lock it down. Now!"

I didn't see the speaker as I moved towards the open room. I could make out the large doors, glass and mesh windows in front and movement just beyond. It was gone in an instant, and it probably was the speaker. Above the doors sat the bold and red words EXIT. It was a wonderful sight to behold, but I already suspected as I moved in. I knew the doors were locked.

The knob wouldn't turn. The Asylum was designed with deadbolts that needed a key to open, but didn't have a latch that could be turned. It kept people from walking out. Shockingly, this might've worked too well. Except I was still stuck inside, after I was mistaken as a patient. If it made people run away, and patients leave me alone, then that was best. I didn't want to fight anyone, I just wanted to get out.

I glanced around the room I was in, and reminded myself of the bodies left behind. Patients and the staff alike, slaughtered by something. I see footprints in the carpet I stand on, bare feet and the company shoes issued to the workers. We weren't allowed to bring a lot of personal items, and we were not allowed to go off on shopping trips. Not most of staff, at least.

A large desk was at the rooms side, and heavy canisters left behind and around it. I didn't think they needed the artificial fluids and things but for the area beneath the mountain, that place. The… what was it we were doing down there? I have a hard time with remembering, the things we did. What was it I did exactly? Debugging. Software. I worked with software, and computers. It's too hard to keep it straight, I don't know why. I wish I did.

I moved to the opposite end of the room, towards a doorway with nothing but the promise of shadows behind the broken frame. It opens into some sort of side room, used as spare storage for more barrels of the fluids used for the project. A few boxes and files are scattered across the floor. I walk to the side of the room and stand before the stacks of barrels, and wonder if I can climb up. Should I? I just came from this side.

Prison. I'm trying to get to the prison, I don't know how to reach there. If I can get outside, I can get my bearings. I could go someplace high, take a look around. I wouldn't be so disappointed if I accidentally escaped these grounds, though in all likely hood that was impossible. My luck didn't work that way.

I jumped when my foot hit a box of files, and the noise of the contents spilling spooked me. It sounded like the thing, the rasp. I just imagined it, the plastic walls and purge gates had it contained. I tipped the box over with my foot and shoved it aside. Some of the files looked recent, crisp and in one piece mostly. I knelt down and flipped through a few.

My hands began shaking as I went through the files. Notices of resignation, processing of staff. People were seeing shadows, and reporting it. Murkoff took in a lot of their own to treat something called PPSD, the Psychopatholgist Proximity Stress Disorder. Someone called Trager had Mr. Annapura taken in due to his threats. Christ, I wasn't the only one. People on the top, they knew what was happening. They tried. Oh god, they tried. I'm not the only one.

Then I find it. The first name I read off of it was Blaire. Oh no. No I… I can't read this. It's too much. It's mine. I recognize the stupid ID number I was assigned.

"_…__ employee one-four-six-six, report to the Morphogenic Engine monitoring _…"

I choked on a sound in my throat as I worked through the image, terrible reaching hands and the elevator gate. Screens. Twelve. A row of three by four. A man on the other side of the window screaming for help, fear and desperation in his eyes. And then blood. How much blood is in the human body. So much. It's all over the wall that are closing around me, crushing the life, my very soul, out of my bloody eye sockets. I'm choking and shrieking, but no one's there to help. No one wants to get sent behind the glass with me.

I come to on my side. Again. My body aches, the air is too cold on my feet and shoulders. There's a soft ringing in mind head, clear like a bell, and the back of my throat has that flat taste. I choke on my drool as I shift, stunned. I try not to think, I try not to remember too much. I push myself into a sitting beside the doorframe, and let the light fall across the crumpled note in my hand.

_From: __j. blaire murkoffcorp. us __.com_

_To: __h. grant murkoffcorp . u s .com_

_Subject: Resignation for Mental Health, CC 8208_

_Ms. Grant,_

_You may receive requests for information from a Mrs. Lisa Park, of Leadville, CO, in the coming weeks concerning the resignation and hospitalization of her husband, Waylon. If so, please forward them to my personal attention._

_Waylon Park (Former consulting contract 8208) resigned due to previously undiagnosed mental illness. I personally visited Mrs. Lisa Park and her sons and broke the news to them, with the "silver lining" that Murkoff Psychiatric would be graciously providing treatment. Mrs. Park had some less than charitable things to say about myself and the Murkoff corporation. I assured her that with her power of attorney she could try to fight the doctors' diagnoses of her husband's illness._

_However, if it were discovered that he resigned under false pretenses, his insurance would be cancelled and the family would be saddled with not insignificant healthcare debts._

_Hopefully she understood. But if she insists on making a nuisance of herself, or tries to get around me, please let me know. This is one I want to take care of personally._

_Yours. _

_Jeremy Blaire_

My Lisa. I wish she would stay quiet just this once. What they are willing to do, the lengths they'll go to silence people. I don't want her to take on what I have. For the boys sake. They can grow up without a dad, but not without a mom. They need you, Lisa. Please. Please don't make the same mistakes I have. It will only be regret.

I fold up the page and placed it in one of the back pockets. I could forget it for now. Just needed to focus on getting outside, seeing the sun and some fresh air. It'll do wonders, might clear my mind a bit. I had to have something to cling to, to drag me back out of this hell. Lisa had always loved the outdoors. Long walks. I wasn't too far gone yet. I would keep moving and find a way to stop this.

I shuddered to think that Jeremy Blaire had visited MY family, and spoken with MY wife. A multitude of things he would be willing to do them.

Out of habit, or forgetfulness, I try the large doors at the rooms front, but they are still locked. I weave around the bodies thrown across the floor and move to check the gate of a door left shut, just beside the desk cluttered with canisters. It was locked, and a rove of furniture items left stacked behind the gate. I checked behind the large desk to find more corpses, people whom had been hiding but were found and torn to shreds. They hardly looked like human corpses, just more slaughter house fodder of organs and bone.

I turn away and examine the outer side of the plastic covering, which was built through the back half of the room. A quarantined entrance that prevented contamination. It must've worked, that thing would have found me by now unless it had lost interest and gone elsewhere.

I was unsettled by my conclusion that It was able to think, that it WAS capable of goals and objectives. Some part of it was human, if it was every human in the first place. The patients. They had been used to find it. Was It—

I entered the short corridor of plastic. Through its clear material I viewed more materials along its sides, mostly large barrels of undefined contents. On the right was a pallet, set on it was what might have been bags, covered with a bright blue tarp. Something supplement, minerals. I held my head as I rounded the corner, and found another purge gate. I entered the door though it was obvious it was none functional, it was dark within and the odd smell of the gas seeped throughout the small chamber. The doors beyond were jammed, and I could only stare through at the dark corridor beyond.

A body lay under a piece of plywood, the plywood was snapped in two pieces. Some of the plastic from the walls had draped inward, and large cables hung from the hall with no true purpose, but to mystify me. A strobe light blinded me as it spun in the ceiling above. The sirens came from places distant, or near and I only lost my interest in the echo. I wish someone would just take the time to shut them off. If I had the chance, I'd do it myself. I couldn't remember where the controls for the facility were. Maybe in the room, the Security room where I watched that guy die.

It wasn't me, thank god.

Two dead ends. There had to be a way around. I paused in the joining corridor of plastic walls, before turning back into the large lobby. Someone was screaming. Agonized sounds that sickened me more than frightened. I couldn't decide where they came from, but they faded as I moved away out of the corridor.

I could get around. I could figure this out. It was… like a puzzle, there was an answer. There had to be. Or I could make an answer. That'd be a little like cheating, but whatever worked. Don't be so linear. Think. Think of a way around.

I looked up at the ornate chandelier that hung from the ceilings center. A lingering reminder of sanity and order, a little piece of time from long ago, yet forgotten. Antique ideas with the same backing, the same motives that damned this place. I was thinking of walking out, but was there a way to crawl out? Was that the answer? The staff would be locking doors to hold off the danger, but no one would be using windows?

I spun about and glanced to the side of the plastic wall, where the barrels were stacked. It wasn't high enough. On the other side, there was a pallet on the barrels. I moved around the plastic edge, beside the desk. I could see the area clearly now, and I moved to the pallet set upon the barrels. I secured the camera in one of the pockets before crawling onto the pallet, the heavy stack of bags kept it from wobbling as I treaded alongside the containment wall. Large sections of plywood had been left upon the plastic top, for the maintenance techs that needed to work up in these areas. The plywood was steadier than I thought it would be, and I was soon hunched over in the dark.

The sirens had faded, but in their place was the snap and bark of current. Wires crackling against the cold air, their electrical ends exposed through some calamity. The patients? Who would cut wires? I wanted to say Jeremy Blaire, he was my poster child for all things bad that happened around here. It felt good to blame him, even if I got nothing out of it but some private satisfaction.

I felt along the metal vents until I had the camera up, the night vision active and guiding my direction. I stumbled as the board I walked upon tilted forward, but I managed to keep my balance. I wasn't bent over for long before I reached an opening in the plastic cover, and the plywood ended. I knelt down to see where I would put myself. A plywood, snapped in half, a body beneath it with blood streaked around him. Cords hung from a compartment, from where they had been severed. It was the corridor I was looking into, from the broken purge gate. I thought it over, I'd be stuck if I dropped down in there. The entrance doors had broken windows and mesh, I could maybe get the plexi out of the way and squeeze out. Or, knowing my luck, I might just cut myself to pieces trying to get outside. This didn't seem more favorable. But I was trying to find the prison block, outside might come later.

I lowered down, careful not to step on the body. When I had regained my balance, I gave the dark corridor a thorough scan. A door near my side was locked. I moved around the broken cables, leaving the burnt air and the barking cords behind. Five steps and I began to pick up the sounds, the shriek of pain against the squeal of something. A tool or mechanism of some kind. It sounded like the bread saw we used for Thanksgiving. I stop beside an open door, and listen as the sobs die out to gurgles and then the silence crashes through the corridor. I watch through the visor and turn, but I can see no more at the end of the night visions range. I might be all right where I am, whatever was happening wasn't nearby. But it was difficult to judge with the way noises bounced along the flat plastic corridors. It wasn't like the place, the place beneath—

Stop trying to think about it! I shake my head, and move onward, forgetting the door for now. I reach an end in the corridor and find a security operative lying dead between two clear doors lodged in either side of the wall. Numerous dark footprints are stained around him, and move off to fade the way I have come. Beyond the Plexiglas there's little to view that would excite me. Endless halls of plastic and metal, extending into the dark depths of the green tint in the visor. A door broken from its frame and light flooding the hall, but I had no way to reach that side through the nanohazard door. I turn away, blinking against the terrible strobe as it flashed overhead. It was made worse due to my reliance on the camera, and the light amplifying visor.

There was an odd scent in the cold air. A warm smell of char, but I couldn't identify what it might be. I attributed it to the gas from the broken purge gate, and the severed wires singing the air. I returned to the door I had passed prior, and leaned around the frame, scanning the eroded walls. On the wall at the side was a broken window with a body sling over the frame, with long and gleaming cables hung from the man's waist. With a start I realized it was his intestines, some had fallen out. I clutch my stomach as I turn away and moved towards the half of the room on my right, where there was light. Large, thick curtains extend from either side of the room, sort of dividing it in half. Bed frames and a few mattresses were left here, and all manner of trash and discarded junk was left across the floor. I don't know if this place was left neglected, or had the place been ransacked when Murkoff lost control. It couldn't have been left this way. I'm sure it couldn't.

The body was old. I coughed when the stench hit me. Oh god, what happened? The doctor was already decaying, and flies had swarmed him. I couldn't decide on something that made sense. The blood on his lab coat was old and dried, he looked like he was stabbed, or cut. And footprints. More tracks left by bare feet. Had he… was he just left here? How long has it been since it all fell apart?

I checked behind the thin curtain set up in the rooms corner, hung up around the bed there. Nothing there, nothing to help or impede me. A door at the other end of the room beckoned, though I didn't look forward to returning to the dark corridors.

I moved back to the shadows, back to the window were the body hung. I didn't look his way as I examined the room inside, through the green tint of the visor. I coughed at the rotten reek and listened to the wings of flies snap and hum. I didn't understand. There was too much happening, and nothing here was making sense.

The room had nothing, either. Book shelves, a few broken lockers, pages and files scattered in thick piles across the floor. It was a sea of books. I grunt as I swung over the frame and crossed to the only door that was not barred shut. It swung open and I peered into a connecting room. A gurney had been propped up beside the wall, another set of lockers with doors torn off. A picture hung to the wall beside the door, had a spray of blood stained up its front. But no body. The guy left draped over the frame?

The only door out of the room was left open, and beyond it was another corridor with its mandatory glimmer of strobe light. I squint as I peer out, listening for sounds. There was a shriek somewhere, and the howl of the tool, the trimming knife. With disdain I realized this was the corridor I had come through, I could see the legs of the corpse beyond the thick cables, and hear the bark of static. I drew the door shut before going back to the divided room, and climbed over the frame with the deteriorating body slung over. I felt no relief in reuniting with the bright light, however short. The air was heavy with rot.

Needed to get away from those bodies. I didn't want the reminder of what would follow, for the people left here, forgotten. All these people. Would no one miss them?

Another of the nanohazard doors was left shut directly on the left, but the corridor extended to the right allowing some relief. This hall smelt worse than the last area I had moved through, rot and the hot scorch of meat. I could almost envision bodies left to a blaze, melting under yellow flames. I don't know where this path would lead, if there was a way out anymore if a fire had been set loose to spread. I didn't know Murkoff had detained fire, could manipulate it and test it. I shuddered when I realized this thought was not feasible, I wasn't thinking right. Fire was untamable. Most likely, a spark had ignited and somewhere a room was being lost to the inferno that was allowed to grow. I don't know.

I ventured into the hall, blinking under the bright strobe in the ceiling. A short distance through the gloom and I located the remains of a door, crushed against the floor. Its frame was left wide open, with pale blue light seeped out to mix into the shadows. It gave me a path, some much needed direction to take but… I was not pleased with this. In the corridor beyond the gaping frame was another nanohazard access, and through the clear door was the corridor I had looked in from. The body was still propped against the clear surface. I was making a long winding detour around all of these sealed doors and I was getting far, far off course.

The sounds that came from within the door. The wail of mechanized tool, and the thick voice of someone. It didn't sound like a person. I crept towards the broken frame, the foul scent was so heavy I was nearly choking on the air. The heavy aromas of scorched food, meat sizzling and burnt Teflon. My eyes watered as I was overwhelmed by the harsh combination and I reached up to wipe some of the moisture away. Somewhere in my head, I made note that I had no glasses. It was weird that I would think of it now, I needed to think of other things. The room that someone had fled from. The doors were blown outward, as if someone had thrown themselves against it in pure distilled terror.

It was a kitchen. I could hear this guttural harsh voice beyond a tall shelf, a rolling cabinet obscured sight from the other side of the room. Additional metal contraptions and tray shelves were jammed into the room. Movable closest were shoved up beside one wall, the other extended a set of cabinets and countertops, beneath the long preparation counters were rows of large industrial cans for the kitchen staff. Atop the stainless steel, the remains of two or more bodies had been scattered, among blood coated knives and scissors. There was blood on every inch of the stainless steel at every wall.

My gaze focused beyond the tall shelves, to the shape of a body thrashing about. After all the violence and killing I had seen, I didn't register at first that the person blocked from me was not in pain. But his behavior wasn't normal either. He snarled and slurped, like he was half drowning and laughing in the same breath. Nothing about this was natural.

Above, someone from the advance research team was hung like a skinned chicken. His feet were tied together but the dull hook was jammed through his ankle, and protruded from the opposite side with strips of tendon glistening over the silver hook. I covered my mouth when I tried to make a sound. I was unnoticed, and it needed to stay that way forever.

A frigid draft worked through my jumper suit, and I turned to the huge walk in freezer that was left open. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with cans of food, so much food. Yet overhead hung corpses from the meat hooks. Arms, legs, heads had been removed from many of them. I… I can't do this. I don't understand what is happening. When did it happen? How did all of these people die in so short amount of time?

The power died long ago. I nearly suffocated. It took time for me to come off the images. I have no recollection of time. I don't know when all of this began. It might've… it could have been months ago? No, no. People were still running loose.

I winced as I moved into the freezer, the cold clung to the blood stuck to my feet and I felt my skin rip off the floor with each step I took. I glanced over at the shelves full of cans, labels of soups and whole chickens, and other perishables. Was any of this still good? I took a can of soup and stuffed it into my pack before moving on.

I exited the freezer, and lost any hint of my appetite entirely. The stove was littered with pots, full of red. Fingers and toes stuck out of what I hoped was boiling water, oh god, it had to be water. It couldn't all be blood. To the side of the stove, a mass of red bordered by crusty black stained a small skillet. Other pots and sauce skillets had been left out, their interior walls coated with so much red and something black had formed in a thick layer on the bottom. Even a soft glow came from the window of the blood splattered oven. The entire room was hot and smelled of cooking meat. But all of it was people. Burnt, boiled, and scorched flesh. I gagged, but there was nothing I could purge. Sick. This place was sick.

* * *

**As always, thank you readers and have a safe New Year, as with many wonderful meals and good food**


	6. Chapter 6

**Horerczy's Runt**

I found that my mind would get misplaced in some way. It's hard to describe the sensation to myself, but I lose my focus, my thoughts, and think nothing for a span before I 'came back' to myself. Hard to describe. You're a calculating machine, looking into the world, absorbing stimuli and reacting to it. We get into the habit, this false sense of safety after so long in civilization. In a set order of the way our world is run. It's impossible to imagine war, avarice, or what drives people to kill. For the longest time all I ever envisioned for myself was raising my kids, growing old with my wife. A good long lifetime, uneventful. Nothing would ever happen.

Then the worse that could happen did. And I for awhile wondered 'why me? Whatever did I do?' And I thought for a while, just a sliver of time, that it couldn't get worse. Nothing can be worse than breaking the systematic order of life I had been so set on.

Then I got the letter.

I had wandered back and forth between a door and the freezer, for some time before I was aware of my movement. Then, it was either the door or the entrance to the freezer, beside the warm stove and the contradiction of the freezer. I huddled trembling in the doorway of the large walk in freezer, the thin fabric of the scrubs no defense against the hard rolls of air that my skin absorbed. It was impossible to find a comfortable position to crouch in, arms latched around my shins in a vain effort to ward off the chill. I shook violently. I thought for certain, my skin would rub off or my muscles would turn to ice. But I couldn't… wasn't ready to move yet.

Beyond the doors I hard heard those sounds. Not the soft scraping of something metallic. It was organic, but it sounded bestial. Whatever was beyond the door looked human, maybe spoke words, but it was nothing like a person. There was no name for it, and there could never be a name. A name indicated class, suggestion. A name made it real.

I had forgotten where I was going, what I was doing. I tried to think, envision a place that I should seek as a salvation. Something to set my goal and enforce, 'I cannot die, because that wouldn't make sense. If I die before reaching the conclusion, the equation would be False. I cannot let it be False.' I was on my way somewhere, but the place and nature was lost from me. I thought hard, searching the scraps of memory left to me. It was difficult to pick out my thoughts, my clarity. Too focused on the rolling vapors of suggestion, the hum in my bones. Steady vibrations working their cold network through my veins. Until I realized this sensation, was what found you when left too long on idle. Stay busy, don't let it sink in. It was dangerous. It was dangerous to stare at the screens, to absorb the Treatment.

I lurched from my crouch, stiff and sore. I was barely crawling across the floor to the front of the hot stove, the heat radiating off was too painful. But I had to get warm, I needed to stave of the frostbite that worked into my muscles. My throat was raw from breathing abrasive cold air, and I wondered how long… how long had I been sitting there?

What happened to me?

I rubbed my arms and legs struggling to massage out the pain prickling through my veins. It felt like crystals sliding through, my blood had crystallized and my toes were numb.

There was a crash beyond the door, and a thick screech. I stare up from where I lay and listened to the silence that crept through from the next room. It was terrible how the opposite of sound could be twice as terrifying. Was he… Was he going to come in here? What would he do when he found me?

I used the stove to pull up onto my feet and took a few unstable steps toward the first door, right in front of me. I set my hand on the handle but never turned it, because the noises had returned just on the other side. There was another sound, beeping. It wasn't the sirens, it was a soft, tame, twitter. A new wave of thick stench and scorched meat seeped into the air. The rough cry tool began up again, with a whirling scream that was reminiscent of the shade. Shrieking, screaming, splinting through my mind.

I fumbled with the door to my direct left, and exhaled through my nose when it opened. I paused before pushing the steel panel open fully, and attempt to mentally prepare myself for what would be beyond. Hannibal Lecter eating the brains of the surviving Murkoff staff? Not the most terrible scene to behold. Hannibal only ate the rude, and I'd be too scrawny and pathetic to waste time with. He'd allow me off with a dismissive wave, and I'd be left unsettled but none the worse given circumstances.

A strained and wet wheezing came from my right, once I had entered into the next room. The cafeteria for staff, numerous long metal tables had been left untouched in the chaos that claimed the facility. Either the freezer was too full, or they had been dead for too long. Corpses. Dozens. The bodies had been left scattered, but orderly, perhaps where these people had died in the midst of whatever came through; a swirling plague of indescribable black smog with its instant fatality for those who breathed in the spores. A few were propped in their chairs before the tables, chests torn open and a pool of blood drying under the tables. Other bodies had been in the process of escape or hiding. The few that had managed to get on their feet had fallen between the bolted down chairs, or slumped against walls. High up, one wall had a long red smear trailing down its bland gray surface, the bright liquid was still creeping down to the body crumpled beside the wall. I twist my face away and squeeze my eyes shut.

Wet, squelching sounds caught my immediate attention and I spun to them, receiving whiplash in the base of my skull in effect. I held my neck and stepped back as I gawked through the visor in the cameras side, not yet aware that though I held the camera up I was not utilizing the night shot enhancing feature. Across the window on my direct right, a wall of dark blotches between me and... movement on the other side, a figure. The flare of membranes and wings stretched through my eyes, reminding in vivid detail what I had witnessed when I had first awakened in the cell. The Plexiglas was coated in gore, higher than I stood and the layers enhanced until it was nothing but a black wall with red tinged veins.

The back of my knee hit the table behind me as I recoiled, and I sat upon the cold metal top to stare at the scene, of whatever I could make out. I didn't understand. Christ, why am I here? What am I trying to do HERE? I pushed off the table and moved close beside a tray rack that had been knocked against a tall, concrete pillar. As I moved around tables jammed into their spaces, I listened to the strained noise as it grew steadily louder, then cut off. I paused, my eyes fixed on the floor where the blood was drying. I focused on how much I hated it on my toes, the thick syrupy film. It stuck as I lifted my foot to move, to continue.

Pots were stacked and packed together on the table across from me, and a shelf and cabinet were stuffed around the table beside my path. I turned in place looking from one body to the next, before I realized that the glassed in room of the kitchen was before me. I tilt my head, unsure what I was looking in at.

It was a man poised behind the serving counter, his front was coated with dark trails of red running down his neck and chest, but he was alive. He held a device in one hand, but I was not yet interested in that. The man wore only a beard, the gore he bathed in, and a detached gaze that had not alighted on me. He was engrossed with the body butchered on the counter before him. The shirt of the corpse was removed, the chest had been flayed out and the muscles exposed under the thin skin that was peeled back. What remained of the neck was crammed into a shattered microwave?

Ding.

I swayed on my feet and barely caught myself against a table before I fell over, into the carnage around my feet. I need to get out of here, need to get away. Can't lose myself here, can't… I can't, I don't want to be seen. I'm invisible. Not here. You can't see me.

I slunk forward and slipped between the parallel tables pinned before the glass window. It was all right, he could not get to me because of the Plexiglas. I wasn't with Murkoff, he was killing Murkoff. I was a patient, he would see me as a patient and let me leave. He was oblivious to patients. Wasn't he? That was it. That was the answer.

I tried to make myself smaller, didn't want to touch the bodies. The feeling was coming back to my feet, and I could feel enough of the thick blood that slid between my toes. This was wrong, my mind kept saying. But it couldn't be helped. Just get through this. Just keep moving—

There was a piercing squeal, and I glanced up in time to raise an arm to block a gush of blood flying my way. I falter and fell to one knee, while throwing my arms over the back of a chair to my left and kept from crashing all the way down with my weight. I stare at the man behind the window, behind the shattered window now. His eyes were on me, I was gazing into them. What do you see? What are you thinking? His brow was nit together tightly, his gaze dark but contemplative. I feared something in his mind, a thought he was having. Judging me. I didn't want to believe, that his sight had fallen on me and now I was in his mind to be processed, an item to be mulled over. That I was being considered in the recesses of his hazardous contemplation. No. No. He knows I'm here.

The camera was clutched in one hand, I could feel the plastic case strain in my grip. If I didn't loosen my hold, it would shatter into dust. But my muscles wouldn't relax. Cold. I was still so cold.

"Don't look at us," he hissed. His teeth were dark, I could barely see them. "I love him." The man gestured over the corpse with the tool in his hand, the contraption he held in his hand.

I pushed myself upright, until I was nearly standing, and clutched the camera to my chest as though it could protect me. As though what it witnessed would be refracted back, to shield my body and mind from the insanity seeping through the floors and walls of Mount Massive Asylum. I choked on my tongue when the man reached his hand into the corpse, digging through muscle, organs, and sinew; until he was up to his elbow in the crimson swill. I had a firm hold on the chair I stood beside, if not for it I would have fallen dead away. His arm worked around briefly, before he paused and withdrew his fist. Something was clutched in his hand. A small, flimsy sack that was the color of a plum. It looked like some bizarre mutated plum, glistening and bulging with bright black veins and a yellow gooey cluster of leaves upon its top.

The sound I heard, was not coming from the machine he held. It started as a roll of thunder, then peaked into a crashing wall of needles. Hundreds of needles spilling through the cracks in my brain, piercing into my skull. So silent, you can hear a pin drop. I wanted to clutch the needles up high in my fists and scream at the top of my lungs, let the blood spill out of my palms and down my arms. Hot blood to warm my skin.

I gagged on the drool gathering in my throat. I hadn't take a breath, hadn't swallowed. My body locked up. It's a fit, it'll pass.

The man had the little plum colored sack above his open mouth, and let it disappear between his lips. A brief pause thereafter, and he was digging into the exposed muscle of the chest with his teeth. Ravenous, noisy grunts as he tore out chunks of red and purple. All of it disappearing little by little. I watched thinking, I remember thinking, 'My god. Shouldn't that kill him? He's eating raw meat? That would kill a man. What is he?'

I scrambled around the table, between its front and the glass not an inch away. That smell. Cooking meat, scorched and fried, copper coated burners. Blood, so much blood. Too much blood.

I slammed into one of the soda vending machines beside the wall in a back alcove of the mess hall, as I flailed around searching for an exit. A door. There had to be a door, there had to be a way out. A way in, was a way out!

I jerked away from the body slumped between the wall and the machine. I was losing it. My mind overrun with wild blooms that resembled melting eyeballs and expanding fluid, white like milk. Trapped. I was trapped in here with him. He would kill me, eat me. Tear my body to pieces. There would be nothing left to send my wife – a shoe box, a Ziploc bag, a Tupperware container for my eyes.

In the gloom beside a wall was my salvation, a door missed in my panic. I ran at it, dragging the metal barrier shut behind me before I collapsed in the next corridor. No. No! Don't stop here! Keep moving! Keep moving!

I pushed up against the plastic wall, more plastic coated walls. Normalcy, familiarity. Move, keep walking. Forget. Leave it behind, try and leave it behind. I don't think I could, but I would try. I had to stay on my feet. He looked at me, looked right into my eyes. Did he know? Did he see through my guise?

"_Don't ask to see my body, Lisa. When I die, when you finish the lawsuits that let you pry this footage from Murkoff's army of lawyers and cooperate hitmen, don't make them show you my body. Just bury it. Or burn it. Let my sons remember me whole._

_That man is eating human flesh. He looks at me and I see anger. A little desire. But more than anything, hunger. Please don't make them show you my body._"

I stumbled to the corridors end and fell down, knelt, beside the nanohazard door. I was on both my feet writing with my right hand, the camera held in my left managed to clutch the little notepad as I scratched away at the stained paper. I reread the note over and over while I wrote, but didn't feel the meaning. Occasionally, the strobe lamp beyond the Plexiglas flashed through the visor, blinding me. Soon, I was seeing spots. Technically, I was still on my feet. Just had to keep moving. Where? Where was it I needed to find?

I flipped through the pages, ignoring the first, the script that reminded me too much of a distant past. Prison. It had lights, electricity. Hope. I took the notebook and with the pen, slipped it into the side pocket and adjusted the belt as I rose to my feet. I had eyed a doorway to my side left open, and beyond it a sort of leading corridor. It was a dead end on one side, but the other portion to my left side led into another room. The walls, the hall, everything was suddenly so very quiet.

The short hall came to an end, I stare through the green hue of the visor into a men's restroom. Quiet. How can it be so quiet? It would have been a relief, but the hum. Low vibrations worked into my muscles, as though traveling through vacant space. I was occupying open space and somehow, no consequence to the eerie chatter. I know this sensation. This unsettling and terrible sense of irrational dread, seeping through my mind. I hated it. I wanted to escape it, but there was no escape. It was in the air. It was this place. Distraction. Evade through misdirection. My chest hurts and my mind is never quiet, always a low rumbling and crashing vibrations stemming in the back of my skull. Sick. Sick. Sick.

I stepped further into the restroom, concentrating on anything I could have missed. It couldn't be this still, there had to be something. Some evidence of life, even if through the act of death. The world was beyond my physical reach, and I was left to wallow in the pitiful remains of my existence in this stale place that reeked of piss and bleach. Somewhere within the dark reaches of the galaxy, beyond sanity, beyond safe return.

A section of a brick wall sliced through the rooms center, one side was lined the urinals, and across from those a row of glistening white sinks. The other side of the wall was dedicated to lockers both large and small, the few within the night visions range were dented or doors torn off, the few contents of the containers scattered over the wooden floors.

I stood in the room, center to the sinks and urinals, staring at the gleaming sinks in the visor of the camera. It was beyond pitch black in the room, but I didn't feel safe. At the edges of the visor lingered vague shapes that wavered and warped as my eyes held steady. The brood of the shade swooping about in rambunctious merriment. Maybe they were the source of the chatter working through my bones? They clambered about my shoulders and shins, any part of my body not ablaze in the green sheen of the visor.

I shook myself and walked off the quivers, and crossed to the sinks lining the wall. I gripped the cold faucet and spun the handle, clear water filled into the porcelain basin below and I watched it swish down the dark drain. In the vacant room the sounds bounced back against the old plaster walls, filling my head with the monotone clamor. I listened to the water rumble through old pipes for a moment as my mind cleared. The strange twisting blooms and gnarled gates faded into a migraine, and I could make out the bright sheen of the cameras light as it clashed with the chipped surface of the basin. I let myself untangle from the buzz a fraction more, before I set my hand under the frigid water and splashed my face. It was invigorating. Even as the water dripped from my nose, the water still spilled from the faucet, faithful and cold. Real.

Black swirled in the sink as the water soaked my arm. I had to think back carefully before I recalled the event that sent me away in terror. I pulled down my rolled up sleeve, and let the water rinse out the fresh blood. There was more still on my clothes and feet, but it was too cold to concern over. I just rinsed my sleeve out of impulse more than anything.

The battery was getting low for the enhanced vision. I wasted too much time recuperating, stalling. Had to keep moving and….

Prison block.

I blinked against the dark when I shut off the night vision. I remembered without the notepad. That was good! That was progress!

I moved between the rows of urinals and sinks, trying to think. Find things, pick out your life. My wife is Lisa, we have two kids. They're in Leadville right now, and my boys…. Their names. Their names are….

I stood beside a wall, the edge before a corner that led down another short hall. The exit. Even as the battery was getting low, I held my ground as I murmured names to my ears. None of them sounded right, I'm sure they must've been the names of people I knew formerly. People who were….

I cursed aloud, not intending to. I wanted to hit something with my fist but settled on stamping my foot, though I knew it would just smart. Somewhere in the dark at my back, I picked up the clatter of metal— A locker!

I twist about, cringing from the dark shapes that had filled in the space where my eyes had not been. Couldn't see because I shut off the camera, it was still in my hands. In the dark void, rapid footfalls echoed through the large room, but it sounded like they were moving away. Retreating. Or escaping. I took a step back, tense and alert for where the attack would come. The danger was never revealed, in its place dry hinges coughed distant, then the echoing crash of a door slamming. I didn't need to retrace my steps to understand what had occurred. I didn't want to provoke the other into attack if I accidentally surprised them.

But deep down I knew in my heart, if they stumbled into the Cannibal then it would distract him. That's the only reason I didn't try to go back, to warn them. It was too much of a risk. They might kill me all the same.

I was still leery, and pressed my back into the wall as I moved along the corridor toward the only visible door. I winced when my feet fell into something wet, and foul smelling. Ignore it, focus on what's out there.

Throughout the restroom I heard no other noise, and the driving pain began to roll through my mind once more. I stood beside the door, pressing the camera hard to my temple as the strangled Rorschach's squirmed between my eyes and the dark. I felt the tugging reach of the shades grab at my clothing, faces peer through the black veil I had slipped into. Eyes darker than shadows in hell, are colder than the deep abyss of the Atlantic. Even without the camera, even with no eyes it never left. If ever I dared sleep again, would they come to haunt my dreams? Would they comfort me through my nightmares?

I pressed the other side of my head to the gummy plaster of the wall and moaned softly in my throat. What dreams? What sleep? The only rest that awaited my bodies retirement was death.

No. Not until I reached the Prison block. Call for help, call for someone to come and do something. Even if they leveled the place, at least it couldn't spread. Stop it from escaping. Do more than just quietly watch as hell unfolds.

The camera was at its barest function once I had set my hand upon the doors handle. I pulled the door shut at my backside as I stood, waiting for the harsh burn in my thoughts to curdle or subside, or become something more tolerable. I wasn't thinking right, I wanted to jerk my foot and move off the curious curls of shadows but there was nothing there. I blinked a few times as the spots cleared in my eyes. There's nothing there, it's not real. Delusions, caused be the therapy. This place made you see shadows. I thought I could feel them, but it was just suggestion. Not real. The water was real, they were not.

If X is any real number, then the Domain of any graph will be infinity. Er…negative infinity, great than or less than infinity. X is any possible variable, and in any algorithm where X is present, without a solution, would make it infinity. Was that right?

Yes, that was right. It would come back to me. It was coming back. Math equations. I couldn't remember my sons names, but I didn't need to think of them in a place like this. Didn't need to associate the bad with their faces. I can, it's muggy but I can barely grasp their faces. I know they're there, I haven't lost them yet.

Bright lamps burned at the end of the corridor on my left. My only direction. The air was thick and warmed by the hot light, but I still trembled. My quivers sent rolling shivers through my shoulders, and somewhere my memories conjured up a time when I was sick in bed as a kid. I shrugged out of the memory as I took hesitant steps toward the beckoning gleam. The carpet was soft on my feet, but it was musty and tattered, barely held together by the decay that dominated the outdated building. While out of use the camera was shut off and carried beside my leg, almost forgotten in the yellow blaze that welcomed my approach.

More discarded furniture and outdated materials lay on either side of the dark hall — a shattered storage crate, decayed cardboard boxes, and another of the filthy mattress probably older than I was. My mind wondered, what was being done in this portion of the Asylum? I had never been toured over this side, and for good reason. But would it have really made a difference at the time, as in debt as my family was? Would it? Would I have been more keen to discuss these matters with my wife. My… Lisa. Her name is Lisa.

I wanted to say, 'Of course it would! Look at what's become of you now.' But I had my suspicions, and ignored them. I wanted to see my family again, say I'm sorry for what I've done. Make right what I've wronged. I just couldn't seem to fix things, no matter what I did. No matter my good intentions.

What hope did I have of escaping?

The light is too bright, I shield my eyes as the golden haze falls over me. I pick up sounds, an echo of voices. Somewhere! I hurry to the end of the corridor as the volume raises, as two people holler to each other.

"I made it. I… I think it's safe. Can you climb up?"

Was it an older man? I stared down at a corpse slumped before a metal gate, I'm certain behind the body in the distant gullet of the shades home, the voices come forth. Another answers, he sounds about my age.

"I'm coming, Cooper," he hoots. "I just have to lock the…" There's a shriek from not far but not near, as something grinds. Was it a door, hinges? A kind of latch? "There. I'm coming. Hold on!"

The voices faded as they moved away, becoming mingled with the tingle in my face and hands. I looked down to the camera as I fumbled to pop my knuckles. It was a nervous habit. Lisa didn't like it, but habits are hard to break. It carried over, I would keep it.

I dropped the bad battery when I removed it from the camera. The thud it generated when it hit a lost piece of wood was near thunderous, and I cringed hoping nothing and no one had heard it. The halls maintained the silence, the rolling tremor seeking warm space occupied air, mingled with living flesh. I fished through the pockets of my belt until I located the spare battery, still smudged with blood. I used my damp sleeve to rub some of the red away and dried it, before slipping it into the camera. Then, I looked to the body. I didn't want to acknowledge it, but I realized there was no way to get around it. Him.

At one point he was a patient, it was clear by his broken shape and the ribs protruding along his chest. Somewhere, he had taken a pair of pants from a clean source, one of the lockers probably. I should have examined the lockers I passed, but I wasn't going back now. Suggestively, they were not all that far away, but for me in this place, it was too far to risk the travel.

I tugged at the handcuffs tightened around his bloated and bluish wrist. I didn't want to think he had been left here to die, and to ward off anyone that may have come this way. I didn't touch his skin to evaluate how chilled he had become. I wouldn't. No one could make me.

Into the dark depths of the hall beyond the gate, I gazed with my eyes alone. The frame of an open passage loomed, I could make out a large pipe, a crate of lost wood. The air was filled with burning, which brought vivid memory of the kitchen, of the pots and a stove, and the warm glow of a window. I leaned against the gate as I strained to hear, to focus on living things. There was no indication to where the speakers went and who they were. Murkoff staff, they sounded friendly enough. I doubt that'd matter if they caught sight of me. I could start counting the nails in my coffin.

I pushed away from the gate as I examined the area over uncertain of where it was exactly I should direct myself. It sounded as though they had found a way out, or knew a way. I had no means to get into that area.

I sat on the broken bookcase crumbling into the door behind me. I did turn to examine the door, debating on a way through the splintered wood. It looked decayed enough I might be capable on my own, to shove the door off its frame. I reached over and gave it an experimental push, but despite appearances the door was solidly set in its frame. The wall that the door was built into was fitted with the decorative glass, Plexiglas. I plucked up a discarded two by four from the ground and smacked it against the glass, the spider marred material held tighter than the door. Maybe I could just beat at the handcuffs with the two by four. If I worked hard enough, it should break and fall away? Right?

But the ideal of beating at the wrist of a person's body, even a corpse, unsettled me. It was too barbaric to imagine, too much of what could be expected in this place. Or I felt I was losing pieces of me a little along the way. The Engine hadn't left me, I could still feel it. Sitting here, that wasn't helping.

The plate above the gate read Crematorium. That didn't strike me as much of an exit for anyone sane or alive, but a Crematorium could be near an exit. It was a sort of a furnace, it was possible. However, that didn't change the fact I had no way through the gate.

Above my left, high on the end wall was a broken and splintered crucifix. The whole wall itself was coming apart, mortar had fallen in delicate piles beside the wall from years of sitting, waiting, broken hearted. It occurred to me suddenly, I had no idea what time it was. I had seen a clock that suggested it was three in the midday, or night, but the minute hand was frozen in place. Throughout running around, I had not thought to look out a window, if any had been available. I was buried too deep. No different than being under the Mountain. Lost. Too fuckin lost.

My head had tilted back, until I had nearly fallen back against the sturdy wood door. I was staring up at a gap punched out in the glass, much of it had been knocked free. I didn't think I could get over that, it was too high. I climbed up anyway, stuffing the camera into its pouch before I took the edge of the frame in my hands. I felt along the top for any loose glass bits sticking up. There were a few specks, but I was able to knock them loose with the two by four I carried.

Before I attempted to climb the wall, I considered the piece of wood in my hands. It was sturdy, almost heavy for my loose muscles. I could maybe use it to defend myself. Swing it like a baseball bat. I played sports with the boys.

I tossed it away, off the side of the bookcase. I can't explain why. It seemed like a bad idea. I didn't want to tempt myself into standing my ground, unstable and weak as I was. I needed to flee, or hide. But if I didn't do that, if I tried to defend my life, the result would only be death. Even at my most desperate, I had run. When I was struck, I turned tail. If retreat couldn't keep me alive, then fighting back sure as hell wouldn't. Not in this place where breathing was death.

I couldn't heave my whole body up over the higher frame, as I had done before in the vent. I lacked the drive. Instead, I looped my leg over the edge and dragged myself over. I paused before letting down, checking first for any footholds. There was a desk that seemed at the threshold of collapse, but I lowered down onto it. I was surprised that it held my weight with barely a shudder. Then again, I was much lighter than I had been previously. That could explain my miraculous escape of earlier. My weight loss coupled with the adrenaline pumped through my veins, would have made anything possible.

The first door, beside the door I had climbed over, was locked tight. I used a hand to block the lamps gleam as I attempted to see through the murky glass into the room. It entered into a long corridor, but my eyes could only discern so far beyond the light. I could always come back. Doors were stubborn but they wouldn't fight back.

The light faded against my backside as gathered the hall step by step. I watched my shadow stretch and bounce across the left over plywood and rubbish. An outdated furnace was nestled beside the wall, and not far from that an overturned mattress frame. Despite the stale warmth in the air I still managed to shake without remorse, against the suggestion of a draft. I stepped by a broken metal chair and paused to listen, almost certain I heard a sound. A familiar rasping shrill. Was it… it couldn't be.

The air began to cool as I moved from the hall and light, into the reaching shadows of the corridor. I stopped just before the metal mattress frame and pressed a hand to my head, as the ache latched its icy fingers onto my skull. Why, why now? Stress, I was under stress. Scared of something.

I hoist over the mattress frame and put a hand to the wall, feeling my way along as the black wrapped about my ankles and shoulders. Shapes moved, the distortions in my eyes, in my head tugged at the surface of my skin demanding attention. It's not real, I told myself. Ignore them, keep moving. The sound again, of a hissing whir buried deep in my thoughts. I was in the kitchen, copper in my nose and the heat chewing at my frostbitten hide. Don't think of it, keep moving.

When I thumped into a wall I should have seen, I pulled out the camera. Another of the obscure divisions in the hall, frame with a wood base and shattered Plexiglas. The door was gone.

I heard a door. The hinges shrieked, causing my heart to lurch as I dropped to my knees beside the door frame and struggled to see through the dark. The night vision enveloped a short patch of the room before me, brought it into existence despite its shyness. I shuffled forward on my knees and one hand struggling to hear, to find evidence that there was something real. I licked some of the dust from my lips as I took a thin breath, the air grew chilled beyond the touch of light. Dark shadows exiled into the coldest reaches of the halls, of this damned place. Listen. What is there?

There was a desk and a few chairs stacked around it, on the other side of the room was a wall but I could only see the section of doors along the green tinge of the night enhancer. Offices. I tried to think, remember what was there. I can't remember, I've never been here. No one has been in a million years. Maybe one time yesterday Archaeologists had dug through a dark and evil past and were cursed for disturbing its slumber, but those men were long gone now. No one had come back.

"I need to feed."

The voice was haunting and soft. My muscles all but locked up as I scrambled backwards, back into the cold door frame I had crawled through. My heart pulsed and the dark blotches, little demons danced around my peripheral. Oh god, oh no. Is it him? It can't be him, why is he here? My mind raced, tumbled and stumbled in irrational panic. Was it real? Was it really who I thought it was? I would never forget that voice, and that there was the problem. Was it even real? Could I trust my senses? Dear god, I don't understand!

I clutched my arms around my sides as I fought to ward off the powerful chill consuming my muscles. I left him behind, he was at the kitchen eating… he was eating another man. I wrapped the crook of my arm over my nose when I made to gasp. It'll be fine, he's not there. Keep moving. Mind playing tricks on me. Stress. Jumping at my own shadow.

It was akin to punishment, forcing my legs to shuffle forward. But I couldn't just huddle in the shadows and die of fear. Had to get to… that place. Get through here first, then remember where I'm going.

I checked through the visor of the camera, once I remembered I had that. There was nothing in the hall that I was in, just endless green tint. It was noxious to stare at for too long, or I had a touch of motion sickness. The first doorway open on my right, I crept into. The walls that blocked the hall off from the smaller rooms was a portion wood, the upper fraction that intersected the ceiling was the crumbling glass. If I was desperate enough, I guess I could just dive through one of the many window planes. In theory, I couldn't get boxed into these rooms.

Pale light from the outside, the OUTSIDE, spilled into the room from thin tall windows. I crawled around a table with boxes crammed under it, to reach those windows. The sounds and shades were all forgotten as I took a sleeve to my palm and rubbed at the filthy glass.

The stains remained.

I dropped the camera and scrubbed at the windows, while the onslaught of hopelessness collided with my short spat of radiant enthusiasm. No. No… the glass was tinged with murk. No, please, I just need to see what the outside looks like. I pushed my face against the low corner of the tall window struggling to see anything, a bush, a road, cars, even a brick wall would be fine. I wanted to see something from the outside word. Something real, sane, and alive. The only shapes I could make out were the blurry black bars just beyond the windows, and gray lumps to suggest a setting. Enough light was visible to conclude it was daytime, but the warm brilliance of the sun was denied to me.

My grief was cut short, by a harsh grating at my back somewhere. I jerked about nearly losing my balance as I searched the gloom for the source. I choked at the dust scattered about by my movement, but struggled not to cough at the heavy layer of film tightening in my throat. I crawled close to the boxes stacked under the table and peered over its top. A shape moved, and that sound again. It was a hydraulic device under pressure, whining in pain. My mind racked to make a conclusion, to find the truth in this statement. It was like a blender…

Not a bread saw. A bone saw.

I winced and bit my lip. The reclusive figured swelled in the light as he stepped into the room, the floorboards groan under his weight as he paused to survey the dull glow through the window. I ducked down and huddled against the boxes. He will see me. He'll see me!

"You think you're hiding?"

He sees me! He SEES ME! I lowered my head down to my fists clutched to the greasy carpet. I can't move. Can't move. Please no. I can't get away. My heart stops when I hear his movement, his careful footfalls as he moves around the side of the table. My hands push me back, careful not to make sudden movements as I raise up off the exposed boards beneath me, one limb at a time. My knees, then a palm, slow and gradual movement until I'm backed beside one leg of the table.

"Come out," he whispered. "Let me see you."

I feel a pop in my spine as I draw back, until I'm upright on my knees peeking over the table. He's gazing into the open air I had once occupied, but I can't be certain. It might be foolish hope, but he doesn't seem at all surprise that I'm not there. Is he bluffing? He's bluffing and insane, a terrifying combination.

I stay folded beside the edge of the table, ready to bolt into the dark spilling through the doors and rooms. I don't know if I can get over the wall if I'm pressed back that way, I don't know where the hall ends. Another broken door? Maybe the whole side of Mount Massive had been ripped off, and I could race out into the woods? Farfetched. Stupid. What am I thinking?

My mouth is filled with bitter salt. Blood from my lip. I bit my lip. I'm startled as his pace renews, moving around the table to where I have perched. I keep close beside the boxes, nearly brushing them as I slink away. He's playing with me. He knows I'm here, but he's confident he'll catch me. I try to keep my breathing low, but it's difficult when your legs been looped around a table leg. I froze up when I realized I've gotten tangled. Can't move out and get my leg loose, he'll see me. I'll run. I'll flee into the dark, make it hard to keep on me.

A chill works its way through my body. I've reached for the pouch that I keep the camera in. But it's gone. I've… I lost the camera? How did I? When?

I'm paralyzed by the revelation that I cannot remember. For my very life, I cannot remember where I had set the camera. I had it when I entered the small room, I crawled to… where did I go? What did I do? I was doing a pathetic job of keeping away from a mad Cannibal that set his goal on killing me. And I've lost my camera, my only source of light. When did I fuck up this bad?

The bearded figure emerges from the side of the table, where I had the topside blocking my sight from him. I have twisted over onto my side, when it was futile to shift from the tables underside where my leg was pinned between its close set table legs. Treacherous thing. My eyes snap up to his shape outlined - dark glistening colors accented by false light, cruel falsities. My muscles refuse to take commands. I'm paralyzed. Camera gone, and paralyzed with fear. I can see clearly the tool he carries, the bone saw. It's long, it might've been the type mounted to a table. He carries it like a grocery basket, doesn't let it droop or touch the floor, but keeps it leveled with his hip. The man turns a fraction my way and I hold my breath, I can see the white of his eyes as he scans the room over. He's not looking at me directly. But if I utter a sound, if I take a breath or my joints creak, he'll be on me faster than I can register the pain.

Death.

A sound drifts from the box braced against my leg. I'm trembling. I don't feel it, but I am. It's only seconds, but in my mind it has been days, before the figure turns and walks by. Fading from my line of sight as my eyes remain set on the swirling black that seems to fill the space he had occupied. I resist the urge to exhale, I can hear his slow steps as they tapper off, but he hasn't gone far enough to set me to ease.

"Back in the oven, the children go."

I don't move for a long time. Even when his voice fades into a whisper, it feels like he's still there waiting for me. Watching the illusion of my shadow. His presence is tangible, though there is distance between us now. His memory haunts me, he's still with me.

It takes a few more seconds for my thawing mind to recall, the suffocating dark still awaits. The camera, with the green tint in the visor. I need it! Where could I have left it? I try and think, as I slip forward and drag my leg from the table and boxes. I listen, as the saw cries out somewhere. I had it when? I close my eyes and think about the blood in my mouth. I spit it out and wipe the rumpled sleeve over my cheek. I was going to look at what? I saw something, it caught my attention. I cracked one eye a slit and admired the shadow of my fingers, as I opened and shut my hand. Light. From outside.

I creep around the tables legs and nearly choke with relief. The camera is seated beneath the window, on its side but in one piece. I grab it in my hands and thrust my back into the boxes, shoving several out from under the table. I hear the whirr of the tool, the machine, as its master gives pause to consider the sounds.

Where is he? I slid my elbow over the table as I lift up, to gaze into the dark. I can't accurately decide where the rasp of the saw had come from. It was close but not in the room with me, I click on the enhancement and peer into the visor examining the next half of the room. There's a short cabinet, another desk slanted beside the wall between the two yawning doors, and another desk flipped onto its sides with its legs sticking out. There was no better place to conceal myself, and not with the frail light to cookie cut my shape in shadow.

I don't see the movement I expect in the visor. It's the elevator gate opening, and skulls pour out into my lap. I can only see them falling, feel their weight on my thighs, I can't look down on them. My heads locked back, and people come in. That odd taste that fills my sinuses, blurs through my thoughts. The Engine whirs, the resonance rattles in my mind louder and louder until there is nothing.

And suddenly I'm running.

Light flares in my eye sockets as I dash through the corridor. I'm momentarily stalled by my surroundings, I can't remember this place. Mattress, lost plywood. My shadow moves in reverse, creeping back into my ankles as I pad over rotten carpet. There's a noise behind me, a shrieking call like a demon and its master.

"Mine! Mine!"

I know the voice. I know who that is, and now I know why I am running. I hasten my numb legs as I close in on the desk. I have not an idea how far back he was, I can hear him screaming after me. Or is that the saw? Their voices mingle and distort as the walls ripple, the thick vapor of ash envelopes my nose. I jump and hit the desk with my foot, and lunge upward for the sturdy frame above. Glass bites into the front of my hand as I struggle over the frame and all but tumble to the other side. My legs want to refuse further work, but I force them onward around the corner. If the Cannibal is here, then he won't be in the kitchen. There may be another way out, a door in the kitchen overlooked. There had to be something! A way around, I would find it. I can't go back.

My mind was muggy. Some thoughts feel normal, but my head was like lead. I was barely conscious of the camera I held or looked into. The door was shut as I left it, but I kept thinking of shapes and mist swirling, sculpting from shadows. Chasing people into rooms, covering the walls within in thick crimson, black. Dig around in a little red, express yourself. If you don't, you might do something you regret.

I don't remember passing through the room of lockers, of sour water and flattened boxes. I smelt something in my nose, something hot like fire. Ugh…. Just, wanted to find a way out. The Exit.

Then I was struggling with the steel door. The door went to where? What was I doing here? I set my forehead against the cool metal and collected what was left of me. I concentrate on the train wreck of thoughts sputtering through mud and ditches. My heart thudded against the thin scrap of cloth they put me in. Murkoff staff. Put me in this smock, then put me in the chair.

I was NOT in an accident.

All right, need to calm down. I'm getting nowhere with this. I came here, to this door. This door is locked, I couldn't have come here. Did I take a wrong turn? No. I came through… a room, but there were no other doors. My path was straightforward, the problem had a solution, a linear equation that had no deviation.

My shadow flashed against the gray door, as the light pulsed over my backside. Strobe, and sirens. Warning. I lean on the door as I turn to examine the bulb that flares and fades, and repeats, pulsing through my skull. I try not to focus on it directly, fearing the dull throb that works through my brain matter. I can't get through here, this door. I have to go back.

Back to where?

I'll figure it out. Patience, calm steps, one after the next. It'll come back.

I'm wasting power in the camera, in the night vision. I stare at the small battery icon to help evade the odd twitches in my eyes as I pass through the restroom. Urinals, sinks, lockers. I don't stop to check lockers. I have an idea where I'm going, I want to stay on that for while I have the focus. It feels right, it's progress in its basic form.

I shield my eyes as I reach the end of the corridor, into the den of death if there is in fact no place to go, no escape. I can hide, but my ratio of escape decreases each encounter when he's made aware of my presence. I can only grasp a faint idea of what it is I should be hiding from, but I know it's too real. Carnal and ravenous, a looming nightmare. They caught the boogieman and hid him far away from children, and then he escaped.

Climbing through the shattered window frame is easier this time, but I must be getting accustomed to the motions. It was becoming reflexive, and in my current state that seemed natural enough. I slip down to the desk on the other side, nearly falling as it creaks under my feet. I carefully step down and moved to the shadows in the hall, with the camera gripped in my hands and my ears wary of the shrill from the weapon.

When I've entered through the glass and wood frame of the door, I hear his voice as he mutters. The Cannibal, from the kitchen. I cram myself back against the corner of the frame, just behind the desk and watch. I turn off the camera, allowing the natural light to trail over his shape as he paces about. He paused in the doorway of the furthest joining room and looks about his range. I can make out the edges of his beard, glistening in the light of the other hall with drying blood. I struggle to keep my breathing calm, stay still. I just wait. Just stay still and quiet.

"Appease the spirit with a sacrifice," he mutters, as he begins walking. "And amend all sin." He goes out of sight around the desk, into another room or hall.

It takes a good deal of effort to get my limbs to move while he's out of sight. I don't want to lean up, and find myself eye to eye with him. I don't want to look into his eyes again. There's too much in his eyes, too little in his face.

I stop beside the frame of the first door, and turn my head to see light. Pale light piercing the ugly blotches of the windows. My first instinct is to dash to them and try to see out, see what has become of the world I've been stolen from.

I stop myself.

Already I had tried to look through the tall windows. There was nothing. They were stained, and barred, and impossible to receive through. I was disappointed, more at the reminder that I couldn't look out the windows than I was in forgetting that I had already tried. And for a brief span I had panicked, because I lost the camera. I had forgotten I had set it down.

It's the stress and fear. When I panic I become forgetful, that's the truth. That's what I'll believe. It'll help keep me going. That and Lisa. I remember Lisa, I remember without the notepad. I'm calming down, it helps. A little bit will come back. I might lose pieces of myself, but I can get them back. If I die I lose it all, all at once. Gone.

A shape in the dark jars me out of these musings. I scuttle back, hitting the opposite doorframe before I recall that the camera, I need to use that. Through the visor I see the Cannibal approach from the end of the hall. Where had he been? In the next room. There would be places to hide, maybe a way out. I needed to see for myself, find what other solution I can find.

I crawl behind the side of the wall and listen to his steps on the carpet, they're near inaudible but I can feel the vibrations through the rickety floor. I try to pace myself with him, stopping whenever he does to listen for a sound. The humming? It's always present in the silence, in the absence of life. Do I know that sound?

I lean around the frame of the door and watch him from the distance. He continues to the end of the shadows, to where the mattress is before he gives pause as though straining to witness what lies in the light.

It's a corridor I turn back to, filled with light and curios left over from the dark ages. A mattress beside the wall, and plywood, some tattered clothing that is moth eaten or person eaten. Ahead at the end of the lamps reach, there's an opening in a plastic barrier. Plastic tatters, plastic wrap.

The obscure detail strikes a cord in my mind, and I snap it up as it adheres to my thoughts. The plastic barriers are a constant, they quarantine the shadow. I've passed through many spaces cut out, into corridors that are decrepit and blocked off. Corridors to be accessed have walls coated with plastic, to keep those within safe, to keep It contained. To keep It contained.

Patients and probably staff alike were trimming through the walls, putting holes in the boat. What was once contained, would not be for long.

Not for long.

I tucked the camera in its pouch as I moved under the light, my own footsteps were near silent on a sheet of plywood crushed across the floor. I paused just within the opening of a plastic wall and glanced over the nanohazard doors, set into either wall of the intersecting corridor. Across from where I stood, another section of the plastic was ripped apart.

The patients, they couldn't get through them so they found their own work around. The edges of the plastic were frayed, jagged from hot teeth and blackened. The tool he carried, the saw. A knife didn't do this. A saw did. I slipped through the next breach in the containment wall, straining with the distant reach of light I abandoned. I stumble as my feet catch on rotten sheets, the movement aggravates the strong linger of rot that had settled for centuries. There's no sign of death, no blood. I may have mistaken the old sour of neglect for death, but in a way it was all dead. Nothing was alive in these dark forgotten halls.

Some of the walls plaster surface crumbles under my touch.

We wanted to renovate the house. It was an older home, but at the time we could afford it. Put in new carpet, gut the bathroom. It was nice but outdated. We had plans. When or second son, when he was up a little more we would've paid off the hospital and put in a second mortgage on the house. Fixed it up. It would be a dream home.

I lean against the wall and lower the camera, as I press my palm over my eyes. God, no. Don't think of that now. No point. Can't help, will only get me killed.

As if to prove a point I heard the rasp call. I pivot and watch as the Cannibal padded around the corner and passed under the harsh yellow light, straight for me. No, no, no! Is there a way out of here? Where was I going? Don't panic. Think calm. Think of something. Walls. Walls, and a door, plastic walls. Wait, no…. Plastic walls, the alternative solution. Good. How do I get around the walls?

A door.

I spin in place and stare at a door, clogged by boards and nails. Light from beyond the barrier flitters through the gaps, I can make out the surrounding collision of metal chairs and other solid, sharp edges of furniture. I fumble with the camera and get the visor in my eyes.

There's a door beside me, missed in my panic. Keep calm, stay alive. I check the Cannibal, he's nearly reached the first tear in the wall. The door's open ajar, and I give it a slight push and step inside. I push my shoulder to the door as I shut it, and turn the camera to the room I've entered. Just an office with nothing of value, a desk and a broken lamp. Next to the door are some lockers.

I open the first and search through, hoping for pants or a lab coat. There's nothing but dead insects, and the smell. I gag and shut the door.

"You're close."

I whirl to the voice, fearing it's in the room with me. Close enough. I can see him bob beyond the shattered glass of a window in the wall, that viewed into the next room. He glances my way and I freeze in place.

"Run all you like," he spoke, and turned. He faded out of the green hue, but I can't see where. There should be a zoom, but I don't want to fuck with the camera here. "I'll work for you."

The whirring intermixes with the odd fuzziness in my muscles. I rub at my arm as I turn, debating on where I need to move onto now. Where should I go? The battery in the night vision is getting low, I don't have time for that. It has to last a little longer, until light or safety finds me. This rooms looks to have been abandoned for too long. I doubt any of Murkoff had come through recently. Even the dust kicked up had been undisturbed since everything was shut down. Damn. There was no way out of here, was there?

A door slammed. I turn the camera, keeping my eyes in the glean of the visor. Focus. Focus. Where did that sound—

The door to the small office ground open. I barely glimpsed it in the camera, before turn and ran into the next door. Somehow between the scratch of black and my unresponsive hand, I got the door open and ducked out. I snapped it it shut when I heard the first sounds of the saw just on the other side. The Cannibal gave a holler, and I stare at the gray wood as it shudders in place. The saw bit through wood, I could smell the harsh burn as the blade scrapped and chewed.

I ran away but in my confusion got turned around, and realized I had stumbled out right into the blockade in the corridors end.

There's another door. Another way. I slipped inside as the door adjacent to me cracked and splint. The scorch of wood was stronger on this side, due to the shattered window that connected the two rooms, The Cannibal still worked away. Misplaced mattresses littered the floor, along with twisted bed frames, wood, a crushed chair. Nothing to hide around or under. I knelt beside the gaping window frame as the saw calmed its fury, and the cries of the lunatic faded. I didn't want to stay –

"There you are!"

I bolt from where the voice lunged above me in the black. The next door flashed in the visor, and I forced it shut on the screaming cry of the saw as it swung at my backside. I braced my shoulder to the wood and nearly dropped the camera again. In hindsight, one should not try to hold a door on a madman with a saw, but it was the panic that ruled my actions. I was very fortunate that I did recall the weapon as I felt it chew through the door, and snapped my face back a second before the spinning blade could rip off my nose. I felt warm liquid spill down my chin and feared the worst, but I could still see and I was able to walk. I snatched at a heavy wood chair on its side along the wall, and hauled it up to brace under the jarring squeals of the door. The saw called out for meat and blood, its master bellowed out for death and the chase. I stagger away from the writhing violence.

The room was a library, or records room. Shelf upon shelves of books and binders thick with tattered pages. Large portions of timber and broken furniture made the floor a hazard, and I stumbled about the disarray as my feet found the tiny teeth of splinters. I lowered the camera as I skimmed through the cluttered shelves, finding too much light from the fallen lamp on the floor to help conceal me when the door inevitably gave. I took a few quick breathes to stabilize a pinch of the terror gnawing in me, but my heart thumped so hard I thought it would burst free of my ribs.

A gaping door offered premature hope when I rushed to its threshold, only to realize it was the small office I had escaped from. I could elude him through this side though, crawl through the broken window between the two offices.

The rasping saw brought about an image. Terrible stretching skin white as bone, walls chiseled from stone. No, god, not now! I dropped to my knees and gripped my head as the sound jabbed at my brain, puncturing each cell with heat and cold. I pushed myself away, trying to escape the sound of the door as it crumbled. He's here! Christ, I'll die. He's going to kill me! Cut me to pieces. Tiny little bloody chunks, my body! My body! What hurts! Cut up into steaks, ribbons! He's killing me, eating me alive!

"Done running?"

I don't look at him. I can't. The very sight of him will kill me. I turn away hunting for the floor for something, a weapon. I debate throwing the camera at him, but then I would die and Murkoff's evil lost. I would be defeated and forgotten, as Jeremy wanted. I cannot let Jeremy win.

An odd out of context thought power-dived into my mind, and the pain subsided almost instantaneously. They were locking doors, to keep It contained. The patients made doors, to work around. Everyone was using doors.

"_Mr. Park. Don't be so linear_."

"Lisa," I mumbled. I was nearly at tears as I looked up. Isn't a window, a kind of door? It's a door for light. Sort of. Let the light in. I wanted to see natural light.

Behind me, high on the wall was a large crack. It was far out of my reach. But a desk was braced to a door beneath the hole. I could do this again, and again. I would do this until I died. Over and over until I got it right.

* * *

**Park's mind is all kinds of scattered**


	7. Chapter 7

**Ziploc House**

I swung around and dove at the desk and felt my body fly up, up toward the cracked plaster in the wall high above. The saw sang out as it scorched the air, guiding its master for the flesh and bone I carried. The camera was caught on my hand, I couldn't get it off and get the strap in my teeth so I left it and thrust the edge of my arm across the broken boards in the wall as I lunged upward. Up. And Up. My free hand locked into splinters, and my toes snagged the two by fours nailed into the door below. The man that held the saw screamed something as I clambered through the opening in the wall.

My feet shoved me to far forward, as I swept free of the opening I had nothing to take hold of and flopped forward. My camera hand, my right hand, slapped over the metal bar and plastic of the containment wall. I slung my free arm up, just as the bright strobe blinded me, and my hand managed to grab at a sheet of plastic as I flipped sideways in midair. I couldn't see where I was falling, but I discovered the hard metal floor easily enough.

I groaned and rolled over. The side of my hip was numb and my shoulder pulsed, but it was a welcome distraction from the thrum plaguing my body. I raised my arm over my eyes to shield, as the red bulb flashed across my eyes. Am I safe? Is there anything here that will catch me? The faraway clatter of the alarm lingers in the ceiling, a reminder that it doesn't matter. Nothing matters. The danger has been given doors, and more still are built.

Get up. Can't be found like this. Easy pickings.

I slid my elbows under my chest and pushed up and continued to shove myself away, should the Cannibal manage to climb up and crash down on top me. I stared up through the drapes of the torn plastic, but there was no sign or sound from my pursuer. I didn't feel relief in this assumption. I had… he had nearly killed me. He was going to kill me. And eat me.

I rested my head on my arm and stared at the door coated in plastic and nailed tight. So tight, such a safe door. I felt my eyes begin to close, and thought rest might be all right. Just for a few seconds, I won't sleep. I had nightmares. Terrible nightmares, ever since….

"It has strange eyes."

Suddenly I'm upright, alert and scanning the two sides of the hall to locate the speaker. Had I heard the voice? It had been muted and tricky to understand, but that made it all the more real. The quiver in my muscle was fading, while my newfound unease overtook my senses. Along the hall a cart of tall gas canisters had been parked, more or less out of the way. Just beside them was a figure clothed in a shirt and pants, but his face. That's what got me. He was scarred there as with his arms, but cloth had been bundled about his eyes and over his mouth. Not cloth, it was gauze.

"I'll go say hi."

The person moved closer, and closer still, I pushed myself away until my back was pressed to a cold wall.

I held perfectly still as he caught up and leaned low. "Don't be scared," he said, and reached for my face. I flinched, expecting to be grabbed or hit, but I never would have expected him to run his hands over my face and shoulders, patting my body down firmly. I winced a few times when his mangled digits bat at my eyelids, but they never gouged out my eyeballs. Was I dreaming? This is too insane to be real, the only people here were murders. He would kill me too.

"It's different." He sounded disappointed. I looked up as he drew his hands back and sat on his haunches, 'watching' me. "Not everyone's the same. It's not like us."

I coughed, and leaned my face towards my shoulder in fear that any sudden movement would trigger aggression. To my side was a bloody researcher, still in his lab coat with his ID pinned to his coat. His throat was ravaged and stringy bits of tissue draped down his once white shirt. I was sitting… too close to him.

I looked to the patient squatting before me. What had been done to his eyes? Curiosity demanded I decide or discover, but I wouldn't touch him. I pressed my hand under my side and pushed, slowly rising until I was on my feet. The patient mirrored my movements, and stood beside the wall as though he were watching me. I moved my foot forward, and looked to the patient as he 'stared' at my face. I pressed myself to the wall as I slipped by him, and all the time he followed my gaze. He even began following my steps as I tried to leave.

"Where does it go?"

I stopped beside the door from where I had fallen down, coated in plastic and boarded up. My hip still ached, but the tingle was fading. I decided not to answer, and slipped into a guise that I had not heard. He was a foot taller than me, but his voice was light and hoarse. His mangled arms must have made it impossible to remove the rags tightened over his mouth.

"I'll tell you a secret," he said. "Let me tell you a secret."

The nanohazard door was open, and I could turn the corner into the next corridor. There was light, and for a while I forgot the night vision ate up the replaceble batteries. I shut it off before I pause to stare down the metal and plastic corridor, the floor was strewn with more bodies of men in lab coats. They had not been slain by the saw. If they had they would not be left here. They were bloodied, broken, butchered by a thousand tiny pricks. Monsters roamed these halls.

One side of the wall was the asylum coated with plastic, the area I had fallen into was a larger room before… before Murkoff came in. The other side of the room was distorted by the plastic wall built through/ around the room, I could see tables and desks, computers distorted within. A small section of the modern world that lay claim to Mount Massive when it was abandoned years ago. So many years. I tried to think and remember how long ago that was, when was it? The dates. But I couldn't. I needed to keep on track of my current objective, don't get lost in my thoughts. Don't forget I was being hunted.

God, I was being hunted. Like some sort of animal, and I had no way out. Find a way. There had to be a way.

I moved by a pallet stacked and covered with a blue tarp. On its other side was security operative, his chest broken and blood pooled under him. I glanced over to the patient as he rounded the corner in slow pursuit, only following at a distance now. He was well balanced for one that was supposedly blind(folded?)

The corpse clutched a cracked walkie-talkie. I pulled the small communicator from his hand and opened up the back. One battery. I set the black device beside the guard. I'm not sure why I did that. I didn't need it, but I certainly didn't owe security detail anything.

"Let me tell you a secret."

I glanced to my escort as he held back, beside the gas canisters. He might've been afraid to come down this side. I don't know from where he had appeared from, but the bodies were unsettling. Especially if you knew what caused the death. I shuddered and gripped the camera in my hand tighter.

A metal trolley in the corridors center displayed cropped white photos of X-rays on a computer screen, the small tower on the tables top puffed warm vapor. I used a hand to block some of the invading screen from my eyes, as I pressed my foot to the base to brace the cart and push the trolley aside enough that I could squeeze by without a sound. I needed to get away. Such a small flicker, but it reminded me vividly, and I didn't want to remember. The back room, the fence.

"_I'm afraid we're going to have, to have you committed._"

You need to forget. Forget. Forget. I repeat the word in my head, struggling to find a grasp in my memory as pain follows. Soft voice whispering my ID number, reading off my minor history. No. Get away. What am I doing right now? What is my goal?

Prison. I think over the word, its meaning. Prison Block. I'm trying to reach the Prison Block. Yes. Good. But I need to get out of this place. Escape the… the Cannibal.

"The doctor's dead."

I slowly turn around to see that the patient had followed me, and stood just beside my shoulder. I blinked at him slowly, forgetting for a moment his face is bound and he probably couldn't see me. Did he sense me? He just stands there and stares at me.

"But he's still with us," he went on. "When it sleeps. Does it see him?"

I open my mouth intending to answer, but I don't grasp at all what he's mumbling about. He reaches out and snares my arm tightly, and I stagger in place as he leans forward 'peering' into my face. "Does it still dream?"

I make a sound before a word comes. "N-no."

The patient holds his gaze longer, and longer still. He has petrified from the response and I am trapped for eternity in his iron grip. His hand constricts and I nearly cry out, but he releases my arm and brushes by. "I'm sorry," he mutters.

I turn around to follow his path, and back up into the plastic wall as he lumbers too close beside me. He moves to a door and pushes it open and enters.

"White walls, white rooms. White halls," he says. "The light is bright, the walls are white."

There comes from somewhere a crack and shudder as wood is struck, beaten by a shape of skin and muscle. Not the saw. The man with the saw isn't here. I clutch the camera to my chest and listen, waiting for something terrible. I can't hide in the light, I see no place to run and hide. I should find someplace, but where does this noise raise from? Someone is there, that I know, and they want to reach the other side of a door. Which side am I on?

I listen until the final crunch of wood comes and I wait, to meet whatever threat should come. I reflect where I stand is only a dead end, the nanohazard door at the far end cannot be open. The screens inside the plastic walls, on the other side of the room might be able to access the door. I try not to remind myself that I don't know my script, I wouldn't be able to bypass the password screen and get into the stash where codes or commands were kept. My mind is useless there, where once I had excelled. Doomed by my trade.

It's a long wait under the bright red strobe flashing above my head, but no shape lurches from the shadows. Nothing and no one comes out, only the dark shapes. I hear a voice under the hail of the distant siren. I recall the patient still in the other room. I step forward peering through the threshold he had entered, and find a restroom filled with stalls. I can't see where he's gone in the light, but I hear his voice and decide he's hidden in one of the stalls. I step lightly over the rough wood floor and bring up the camera as the light fades. The lamps in this area are dim or don't work.

A nanohazard doorway looms in the visor, open. I enter into the plastic room and scan the few desks set up with computers, chairs. The rot smell lingers thick but I see no bodies, only lockers. I cross the room to a set and open the door, but there's nothing inside. Absolutely nothing. A few coat hangers and a canister of deodorant.

The room is sectioned from another room, large double doors have been left open to the next area. Someone has come through here? The door. I haven't seen a broken door yet.

There are more of the gas canisters beside the open doorway, and some foldable tables. Across from those another computer terminal and a body slumped forward. I creep towards the body and pause, certain I've heard a hiss. Chills seep through my skin, and I rub at my exposed arm with my wrist to wipe away the feeling. The screen on the computer displays an odd image, I press the back of my camera hand to the chair as a voice slithers through my thoughts. Screens. I accidentally saw—

I jerk away, knocking the chair and the body to roll away. The chair hits the side of the desk and the body, slumped forward, slides out of the chair. I stand away from the corpse staring at the screens, the screen with the orange brain map. Dye scan, my mind supplies. I turn to the body, for anything to focus on. Corpses were abundant, I was accustomed to seeing them. I could smell death, the thick blood from his shirt when his veins emptied out. Something glittered in his hand.

If it was more batteries, I could use them. But it was a set of keys, most of them too small for a door. None of them looked like the kind you use for doors. Anyway, they wouldn't open the nanohazard doors. I looted them and stuck them in the pouch with the notepad. Prison Block. Find the Prison Block. Escape first. Escape this place. I didn't need to be here.

The double doors felt very welcoming as I stepped through, always alert for the odd sound. There was light seeping through the plastic walls I could lower the camera, but never put away completely. I nearly lost it once. I'm afraid to lose it. It's a part of me now and I needed it.

I snort at the scent of blood as I walk into a wall of it. The next room has stainless steel tables, tall chairs perched on either side. Along the upper wall, bright screens are mounted revealing previous scans, study. X-rays of people, white film. A steady shiver rolls up my spin as I avert my gaze to the trolleys lined along the clear plastic wall, half are weighted down with spare computers and small towers, another cart has tools of the medical field. Or the scientific.

The table is coated with blood and viscera. But no body. I can't decide if this eased me or not. Was it possible for a corpse to get up and walk away? Would I run into zombies next? I could deal with zombies. It'd be like a third person shooter, get a gun, some gear. Shoot zombies. No one would miss Jeremy if I accidentally shot him. It wouldn't be an accident, but no one would care. It would make my day a whole lot brighter.

I hold my head as I stagger towards a cart and stare out into the corridor. I can just make out the bodies on the floor, I can smell the blood. The blood is in the room with me. Something's not right with my head. Can't focus. I know where I'm going, I remember. I look down at my hand pressed to the carts top shelf, there's a file with a few pages poking through its side. I flip the blue folder open and read through the dark secrets, the truth. Things too horrible, how can they be real?

_CASE MM1200715, UPDATE 271 _

_(form note: all material herin to be transcribed according to form 4083, with forensic revisions as benefits ongoing lawsuit 1200715.) _

_AUTHOR: Ethan Sriskandaraja _

_NOTES: This is a request for specific legal consultation in the ongoing lawsuit by Melissa Cho against Murkoff Charitable Psychiatry Inc. (USA) originally filed in 2010._

_At the time of Ms. Cho's termination, the psychosomatic effects of the Morphogenic Engine on female employees and patients that had been well established. (Already more than seven female employees and patients had reached fictitious half-term pregnancies in a matter of weeks before miscarrying the nonexistent children, five of them fatally.) Female employees were moved to higher floors in the facility, then to other buildings, and eventually off of the Mount Massive facility._

_The critical secrecy of PROJECT WALRIDER necessitated secrecy in the motivatin factor for the re-assignments and terminations, resulting in perceived injustice from several terminated parties. Ms. Cho has succeeded in acquiring a court-ordered FOIA of the documents surrounding her termination. Those documents will need to be generated and post-dated, providing ameliorating information while skirting the relevant secrecies of the project. Please advise._

_ETHAN SRISKANDARAJA _

_Consultant MM214_

It sometimes happened. These things. Doctors said it couldn't be helped. It sometimes happened. The body did things we didn't always understand, and for all our science and advancements, we were still cavemen struggling to understand the complex machines we were. We thought we could understand every molecular spec, but it was all pretend. We never grew up.

We didn't talk about our third child. We had a name picked out, had a baby shower. We kept our youngest sons hand me downs from infancy, because we couldn't afford to buy anything new. He was going to be 'the hand me down' kid, and we'd love him/her all the same. It was too soon to find out if the baby was a girl or boy.

Christ, if they knew, why didn't they warn us? I told them! I said, "My wife is expecting our third kid, so I'm leery about leaving for residency." And they said, that asshole Jeremy, he said, "It'll be fine." He ASSURED me. Said, "Bring her by."

Bring. Her. By.

His exact words.

Did he KNOW? Was this part of his twisted plan? Or did he get some sick pleasure out of this?

More bills. Just more bills to get paid. I was trapped. Couldn't be there, couldn't even speak to my wife. Couldn't drag her into this. Somehow, I did.

They wanted me. Jeremy wanted me. Knew I would be easy to manipulate, I had shackles. A family. He thought I would comply, thought I wouldn't do anything stupid. But I did. I remember that. The emotions strong, my antipathy for everything Murkoff was doing. I was smart enough to pay attention, I saw what was happening. I knew where we would wind up.

Look at this place now. They thought quieting the ones that cared would save the company. Maybe in the short term it'd work, but long term? Short sighted, corrupt, greedy, corporations. Everything bad has to fall. Avarice eats up its food, the walls of its cage, and then it eats itself. Until there's nothing left but a void. Nothing left to hate.

I wanted to take the file with me, have it grasped in my hand when I died. If the Cannibal got me, I wouldn't have hands to grasp it with. I was about to fold up the main page I read through and put it in a pouch, but the camera. Could I film the page and have it clear enough to read later? For Lisa to see? Let her know, it wasn't her fault, it was no ones fault. She did nothing wrong.

Our oldest son, he sometimes still asked where his 'newer' brother (sister) was. We bought him one of those kid books, the ones that story out and make explaining these things to kids easier. Comfort a bit, child and mom, even ragged dad too. When Lisa did recover she talked to a girl friend of hers about it, hoping for that comfort in flesh. Her friend didn't understand. "It happens. You didn't fail as a woman. There was something wrong with _it_ and your body was trying to do the right thing." Lisa's pregnancies had been, before, by the book. No complications. The… uh. I'm— I'm losing myself, again. Lost focus, lost my train of thought.

Camera. It clicked when I held down a small gray button on its top. I peered at the tiny picture that identified a negative? Polaroid. Picture. I didn't need to do anything specific, if I could read it through the visor. If the visor could read it, a snap would work.

Where was I? Where was I going? It was important that I get to… I had to reach the Prison Block. All right. I didn't know how to reach it from here. Good.

I was being hunted.

A door on the far side of the room had been torn out of its frame. I moved closer, listening for the distant warning ever present. Vibrations rolled through my chest, or was I shivering? I moved, setting one foot on the crushed door and stared on its surface. It was torn outward, someone had been in the room and bashed the door down. With their fists, I bet. I leaned around the frame, the hail of alarms seeped over my shoulders as I moved beyond the frame. The hall I was in is near silent. I keep beside the wall as I moved to the right.

Plastic walling has been torn through, the edges ragged as if chewed by some animal. I examine them carefully, feeling some connection occur between the blackened material, and the suggestive scent of scorched timber. Burnt wood from a fire. A kitchen.

The Cannibal!

I've made a complete circle! Have I missed something? I didn't look hard enough, got distracted by terrible memories. Oh god, Lisa. I'm trying not to fail you, but I am. If there's no solution, if the equation is False. I can't get out. I can't escape.

This wasn't an equation. Walls of mortar and wood stood between me and outside, not walls of numbers. I can figure this out. The patients made doors. Could I make a window? Could I teach a window how to be a door?

I turn from the plastic ravels and peer at the dark opening of a door frame, beyond the blown out door. The Cannibal would be roaming, and I was out in the open. I needed to move, conceal myself somewhere until… until…

Just get out of the open. The door creaks as I step on it, the broken shape flattens when my weight settles on it. I have the camera in hand when the sound comes, a siren. It's not a siren. It's the rasp, the hiss of hydraulics in a rotary. It's a saw that causes my skin to quiver. It doesn't come from the drape of darkness I've paused at. It's right on my back and slithering into my ears.

"I will have your meat."

My eyeball rips out of its vein in order to see just over my shoulder as I twist about. He's standing right there in the light, blood drenched, wearing only the blood from his victims. I hit the side of the doorframe as my legs respond, delivering me a whisper beyond the saw as he slings it out. The Cannibal shrieks but I cannot distinguish between the roar of the weapon, or his own ragged voice as he shrieks. It's all noise, all dangerous.

I don't take the corner, I dash straight into the side room and fly under the sad beam of light. I don't trust its soft reach and stuff my eyes into the visor, the ugly green illuminates the obstacles reaching for my shins. Upturned desks, chairs, a filing cabinet, all whisk through the visor as I spring side to side, struggling not to lose speed in the jagged movements. He's close behind me, so close. Screaming through his red beard, teeth gnashing like some monster in a fairy tale. This can't be real! How can this be real, it's too god awful to be real!

The doorframe swoops around my shoulders when I dive out, skimming through the next. Then, ahead, I see light. Bright burning in the distance. I pump my legs harder, but it doesn't feel as if I've gained speed. I lower the camera as I leap over the mattress and feel air coil under my heels as I'm rising up, up toward the frame above the desk.

The desk shatters beneath my weight, and I fall. No.

No!

The next thing I know, I'm upside down. For a moment I believe I'm dead and being carried, slung over the shoulder of that thing! But I'm not dead. I can see him, upside down, yes. He's still charging my way, gray smoke pours from the saw as he charges towards my face. I bite down on the camera strap stuffed in my mouth, and my hands grip a thick board above me, more wood. The Cannibal swings out of my sight as I thrust my head up, breaching the light. I've thrown my body high over the frame and now I crash into the wall of brick above the Crematorium's door. The lamp above the hall snaps as I fall over it, but it doesn't go out. It falls and hangs beside me as I roll over, struggling to shove off the churning ground.

I cough at the dust that ignites around me and turn my head, to where a sudden crash comes. The door with the boards holds as the Cannibal slams into it with his shoulder. I crawl back from him as he takes the saw and whirs the motor, scorched wood and sawdust fills the air as he begins to cut through one two-by-four braced over the door on his side.

There's no choice. I can make a window, or I can make a door. Both are the same, but one accepts different company. I remember. There's a small knife in one of the pouches. It's worthless against a man wielding a bone saw, but I can use it to cut the wrist of the corpse shackles to the gate. Or, I can try and break the mechanism in the handcuffs. It probably won't work, but I've run out of halls and run out of time.

As I fumble with the belt, camera forgotten and still crammed in my teeth, a set of keys tumbled out from one of the pouches. I don't hesitate to snap them up and look over each silver tooth, glinting in the slow rocking of the lamp I've broken. It begins to click in my head, this equation I've struggled with. The keys are too small for doors. I want to open a window. Am I insane? Maybe only insanity can thrive in this place. It is exempted from the punishment the ruined have wrought upon their suppressors. If I play mad, I might just walk out of here. If I let myself go completely, I can make a window a door and find a work around.

The Cannibal works to trim away the door, but there's still a board on my side he's set the saw into. I don't glance at him as I try one key, then the next. Sometimes it fits, but it doesn't turn. Most don't fit at all. If you're not sure of something, start from the middle.

It's the thirteenth key. The adjacent locks click open, and the body folds over as I pull the gate back. I hold the handcuffs as I drag the gate shut and slip one hand out to hold the cuffs, snap them over the outside of the links. Lock myself in, lock the danger out. I look up at the snarl of outrage and see that the Cannibal has given up tearing through the door with his saw, and is only satisfied now to beat at the mangled wood with his fists. His eyes are locked on mine and I am able to hold his gaze for five seconds longer than I believe was possible, before I turn to retreat into the shadows of the hall.

He still calls after me, his voice cannot fade enough as the black consumes my color, my presence, and then, the plucking twinge works its way into my muscles. I almost miss the Cannibal, but the feeling passes quickly.

"I'll find another way!"

He shrieks over and over. I look back, but the dark movement has clouded my path. Squirming inky veils struggling through the green tint, seeking a way to me. "I'll find another way!" He's across the ocean, speaking in another tongue and trapped in a box. Yet he is beside me, whispering his Truth into my ear.

I shudder and turn to walk away from the brick arch leaking through the black veil. The metal grate that has fallen through the threshold digs into my feet, but I don't move off it. I stand behind the rail struggling to pick out the steady contours of my surroundings that are real. There are lights dotted beside brick walls, and the air is hot and thick with char. I remember that I've been cold for too long, and my skin aches in the contrast. It hurts, and the heat has an almost oily quality, humid but thick and viscous as if seeping through my rags and into my skin. The sensation is wrong, I have to keep moving. Deeper into the quagmire.

Sounds resonate from my right. I turn the camera and scan a chain linked fence, reminiscent of a place… dark. Back of a room. Deep in the closet.

I coil my fist into my jumper as I watch across the wide expanse of a room. Across the dust on the floor I see the remains of a broken man dragging himself, beyond the blocky links of a tall, reaching fence. Not a window, not glass. It is a fence. He mutters, makes promises to himself.

"Exit. Almost." The voice fades, and the body betrays. What was left of the man deflates, and becomes a corpse. Soon he would be cold, soon he would be forgotten.

Or not entirely. I have the camera, I had filmed his last moments. When what is left of me is found, then others will know. I'm not happy with this, not really. I don't think he deserves to be remembered. Was he one of the people that sent me behind the glass? It was half or half, he was or wasn't. The ratio was stacked in his favor, only a handful….

I need to stop getting distracted. I can't focus, have to keep moving. Batteries. Did I have anymore?

I step carefully down the metal steps, the next step more painful than the one before. I stumble off and check over the area I'm in. Pallets stacked to the side, a few metal containers with pipes and a hose. I smell old oil, might've been spilled. The air is heavy with soot, and the grease clings to my toes making them sticky and foul. I've walked through blood. How much blood…

Is in the human body?

A door stands partially open right in front of me. I swat it open and listen to the harsh clatter of wood on brick, and allow the echo to drive away the vibrations that tingle through my skin. It's the cold, and the warmth. Like being reborn. Not really, it wasn't invigorating either. I sniff at the air and smell blood, but there's nothing dead. Nothing rotten. Industrial shelves are built beside the wall, and the room is in shambles. Bricks have fallen from the ceiling, along with cords from something machine like, thick cords and tiny ones. Lockers line one side of the wall, but I don't check them. I can't bear it, to raise my hopes and throw them down again and again.

I exit the room and wander towards the strong smell of oil and gasoline. Barrels line the metal fence, along with more pallets, and overlapping stacks of bed frames. Storage. And storage. Or forgotten refuse. The battery in the camera is holding out, and I've forgotten again where I was going. I don't dwell on the issue for long, before I'm staring at the cold corpse through the fence, its hand outstretched to a large arch. Further beyond the brick archway is a sign, with big, red letters. Bright glowing letters. EXIT.

I can't find it in me to care. I look back to the body, the man that had minutes before had a mission, a solution to his equation. It had been False. Where did he go wrong? Was there a way to avoid the same mistakes he made?

In the tall reaching fence was a large gate, but the door was held shut tight by large chain and padlock. Beneath the fence dark fluid, and a large puddle. I try and remember a conversation, and work out how the scene may have played out. But it's too much to remember.

My foot catches the metal frame of something, it bends under my feet as I kick it off. My toes still throb despite the warmth, but it means I'm not suffering from frostbite. I still had feeling in my toes. That's good.

I circle around the large pillar center of this side of the room, glancing over the pallets and wondering if I could stack them someplace and climb up. But the tall reaching fence extends over the side of the chimneys, and up to the ceiling everywhere else. I take one more lap around the pillar before diverting off, to an open gate in the fence. The gate is furthest from the corpse, and enters into the front of the crematoriums oven. Lights here work and I lower the camera, surveying what is visible. The area is large and hot, filled with brimstone from hell and death, despair and revelations. Metal gates boarder around the large oven lined in the brick, black smog seeps from the iron doors.

Painful recollections fill my head, as did the warped front of an elevator pulsing into my sinuses. I lick my lips as the pain swells into the center of my frontal lobe. There's blood. I smell and taste blood. It almost breaks the tearing pieces of skull, as I reach up and touch my lips. They're sticky. I rub it between my fingers and raise my hand to view the residue. There's specks of blood, but not a lot. I'm hit hard with the memory, burning wood and a door. And grief.

I push the camera into a pouch and spit on my sleeve, to take some if not all the blood staining my chin. My nose stung but it wasn't hurt. Too lucky. My luck would run out when I reached my most desperate moment. How much longer could I go on, how many chances did I have? A cat has nine lives. Nine chances. I haven't died once, I don't think. I wouldn't recall if I did.

Makeshift containers fashioned from steel crates sit off center of the room, a thick layer of black ash huddles around the base of the congregation. They boxes are filled with large pipes, materials used for the furnace? I could smell gas, and the scorch of clay. I move closer to steel doors, and jar back from a dull thud in the room, near me. I didn't get a direction from where its origin, but there was a plain wood door on the far side of the room. I keep to my side, and proceeded to check over each small cast iron door hissing steam.

If I press a button beside the door, a tray would slip in or out. I watched the body of a security operative disappear into the wall of yellow flames before the black door ground shut. I panicked and smacked the panel again, but nothing happened. I tried two more times and nearly gave up, but the door did swing open and the tray snapped out. I covered my nose and moved back from the burnt skin. Nearly all his clothes had been reduced to ash, his skin crusty and steamy black sludge dripped from his body.

Barbeque. Christ, he smelled like charred hamburger meat. I was gagging on dry bile as I staggered around the pallet of boxes and made way towards the door, off to the side. The door creaked open and I saw the glint of something, the instant before the door burst apart and a red blotched shape swept out onto me. I put an arm out and it took the blow, but the force was enough to send me spiraling to my side. I hit the hot metal frame of a… the tray, from the furnace. The scorched body I sent into the oven, he was lying on one. The thought came to me, as rough hands clamped around my sides and heaved me skyward.

I flail, legs kicking out on impulse and arm slapping against something wet. For an instant I was weightless and flying through open air, I caught a glimpse of eyes and the jagged wound in bricks before bright white slashed my sight. The impact of coming down over sharp metal knocked the wind out of me, and I sputtered incoherent babble while working to drag my numbed elbows along hot metal. A grip locked onto the front of my chest, nearly digging sharp fingers into my skin. I chocked, realizing it would be very easy for someone to peel skin off muscle.

A soft cackle rang in my ears. He sounded so pleased, too amused. He was too fucking happy.

"The meat is mine."

I opened my eyes and saw his face. Blood. Different shades, not all of it from the same body. Layers and layers of gore. I hear the low whine of his tool as he brings it up, the saw spins as he grips the trigger and lowers it towards my face. I can only think of how bad he smells, of the rot and disease he must carry. He's going to die. But he'll gut me first and then I'll die.

He's still chuckling gleefully as he brings the saw closer to my face. I get one arm up to grip his arm, and dig my fingers nails several inches into his skin. He doesn't react, The Cannibal. He only presses harder, squeezing the trigger and I feel its breath at my neck as I lift a foot and press it to his shoulder. I won't let him! I WON'T! My other arm snaps to his hand and I squeeze, I feel his knuckles buckle in my grip. I take a breath and hold it in my throat as my fingers dig into his skin, and I push at his shoulder with my foot. The blades mere inches from my thigh, it would destroy me if he jerked back and cut my leg. But I will not die first.

His gaze loosens from me, and the pressure of the saw gives way under my grasp. The Cannibal lets his eyes pick over the area we are in as if he has just realized our surroundings, and he takes in every minuscule detail. I lower my leg as he withdraws the whining weapon, and as he lifts his grip off my chest I try and throw myself up.

The Cannibal jerks at the tray I'm on. I get myself sideways before he braces on arm over my chest and hosts the platform in the air. I gag at the heat filling my lungs and skull, but it's not X-rays or white walls. He's in my face, close to my face pressing a finger near the tip of my nose.

"You stay there." He whips away striking the wall. The panel! "And cook!"

The arch of the brick scraps my head as the tray grinds backwards. The velocity is too sudden, I can't get my legs under me before the black door cracks shut. Steel door. Doesn't swing unless the tray is moved. The tray won't move unless instructed to, from outside.

My voice rattles as I choke on the heavy heat filling my throat and lungs. I clamber across the tray to the doors and kick with my heel, but they're fastened tight. The heat builds up fast in the tiny space I occupy, and sweat begins beading on my brow, running swollen lines down my cheeks and chest. I kick the door a third time, loosing hope for my survival. When I drew back for another try, I turn on my side and chance a glance back into the opposite end of the oven. Orange light and dark contours poke through, curious to the ruckus caused. Its a crack, a wearing in the bricks from years and years of use and no maintenance. It was thin enough.

It was a slither of chance.

I clamber over the growing yellow flames poking through the grill, and perch on my knees before the opening in the withered brick. I locked my toes in the hot grate and swung my fist out smashing into the side of solid rock. The rock shifts, silt fell out into the fire beneath my feet. For my strength my efforts seemed to be worthless, I would be cooked decades before this wall crumbled. There is no choice, if I am to survive and save the camera I carry. I wrench out, slamming my fist to the brick once more and feel nothing, no shift. Again and again, harder and harder. No choice. I have no choice! I strike at the bricks with no hope, no thought of escape. I'm passing time before I die. I'll leave a mark and save the camera if that's my destiny, but I will not burn to death without first trying. A wounded groan slips between my teeth when I accidentally bring my elbow to the solid wall, but I don't let up. I focus on the cool air, and the direction the steam hisses out. The heat rises and twists through my skin and bone, the flames snap at the thin jumper. I wanted to flinch away, but I cannot afford the time.

The furnace is hot and getting hotter. It would peak at its utmost temperature in so precious little time. I choked as my breath labored, struggling for oxygen, but the smog ate it up faster than my lungs could draw it in. My breathe heaves, I've lost my thoughts to the motions of my body. Harder and harder, you can't stop until you're dead, until your skull is a blackened marble.

A brick snapped out when I crashed my fist into the stone. That's it. More! Harder! Hit HARDER!

I hauled my body sideways on my knees, braced my toes into the sharp grate and swung with my all my weight coiled up into the assault. It was very little weight, but the speed at which I delivered the force of it was enough. The side of my shoulder made impact with the solid bricks and I kept going, spilling out the backside of the furnace and into a blanket of frigid air. I gasped at the soot that spun around my face and pushed up on my arms, but my strength faltered and I crumpled to my side. I feel the cold gritty cement under my palms, in a matter of seconds I'm dry and trembling in the suddenly thin air. Its hard for me to decide what has me shaken more, the contrast of the icy air or my close call. The tremors under my skin refuse to calm, its hard to steady myself as I raise off the floor. Bricks scattered in fear of my wraith as I crawl away, but I still feared the fire would find me and drag me back to hell.

"No! NO!" His voice echoed, carved against the interior flat walls of the crematorium. I paused to listen as he bawled out. "You were mine!"

I shifted to my feet and look around, but I see nothing. There's light from somewhere, I see pallets, but no slinking shapes in the fog of my memories. Just the dull haze as the pain fades, my hands ache from the flames that lapped at my skin, my feet throb as the cool air soothes them. I fumble with my hands once I am upright, trying to crack my knuckles but it hurts to rub the skin.

I thought of the body I had sent into the oven. His charred skin, hair singed off, clothing reduced to ash. What would I have done if my means of escape was not the Solution? If the brick had not been weakened by neglect, and years gone by? Dead. That was the answer. I would have been cooked alive, body blackened and muscles made into something edible. Would Lisa heed my words on paper, would she have trust in my shaken handwriting? She could be stubborn, I loved that about her. It made her resilient and strong, but sometimes it was her worse vice.

Dental records would not be enough. She might just demand to see what was left over.

Left over.

The camera had fallen from my hands when I had escaped. I managed to remember it in the suppressing dark before I had moved away. The plastic case was warm to the touch and the night enhancer still worked, nothing damaged, the heat had not reached it. I absorbed the heat for it, the camera would work and it would remember for me. It had to, I'm certain. It'll keep me going, at least the enhancing visor would. I can't see what lurks without it.

I limp along the furnace towards a source of light already present. I count the bricks in the wall until the dark haze gobbles them up, and then I am standing beside the corpse. The man was crawling and alive mere minutes before. He's beaten and blue, his clothing riddled with cuts and blood still bubbled from the openings in his skin. I rub my warmed sleeve at my chin, it stills feels cold despite the inferno beside me. I'm trembling as I linger in the large archway of the door, and stare at the gleaming revelation of escape.

There's a distant echo in my mind, or was that somewhere in the walls? Brick walls that scratch with sounds digging through sealant, creeping through ancient cracks in a hungry quest to find the ones that still moved about. Those that were still alive to fear and hide from shapes clustered in the shadows.

The light dangles from its cord high in the ceiling. My shadow dances over the walls as I move to the door, and try the handle. The door firm in the door frame and I'm not surprised. In fact, I anticipated this. Nothing in this place should be so predictable but it was, and I was growing to hate that fact. Could probability be so second nature in the nest of lies? It was improbable that I was still alive. I was still alive, more or less. Give or take. Most of me is still here, I'll get the rest back later. Whatever kept me alive and kept me going would be what survived, I was calculating this. A bet, even.

Large pictures hung along the wall, each depicting some person. The canvases of most has faded, ruined by the persistent drift of soot and dry conditions but in some way preserved, like the victims of long ago Pompeii. The room is filled with dozens of old chairs, many of which in varied stages of decay and collapse. As I walk the center of the aisle I realize it's a sort of church? I raise the cameras enhancement and view a crucifix set between long drapes of tattered, moth eaten cloth. A large desk sits on the flat of the rooms back, or is this considered the front? In the corners behind the desk are white podiums meant for something, but I view nothing nor the remains of suggestion. Statue or plants, or are the small white columns decoration enough?

There's an embroidery sigil on the front of the pedestals. I move around the desk to examine the sign, a little of them and a little more. The same sigil is fixed to the front of the miscolored desk. I don't recognize the sign as anything from Christianity, but it could just be a random decoration. I'm trying to overthink this.

A folder is crammed against the backside of the desk. Bent and gritty from waiting, forgotten. I pick it up and fit the pages back into the folder as I return to the light dangling at the opposite end of the room.

_(Excerpt from the recordings of Bruce Newhouse, MD. Employed by Mount Massive Hospital 1958-1965)_

_Father Clarke-_

_Far be it from me to lie to a man of God, so let me at least say that I will do my personal best to improve the safety of your working conditions. I and the rest of the staff truly appreciate everything you do for our patients, and if you feel threatened by anybody in particular, simply let us know and we can either increase chemical restraints, or administer a lobotomy or similar calming procedure._

_Don't underestimate the contribution your sermons offer our patients. Especially considering the depth and necessarily chaotic nature of hypnotherapy, our patients need the bedrocks of God and family. Not all of our poor unfortunates have the families to call upon, and so the burden, (and calling,) is yours. We are all of us relying on your faith and hard work._

_DBNR _

_Dr. Newhouse, MD _

_May 20, 1961_

Rumors. It was always just rumors, spook stories. The executives tied deep into Murkoff never let it slip, but they never denied anything either.

I… don't recall how much of Murkoff I remember. How can you know what you don't remember? There are pieces in my mind that feel familiar, that I should be aware something that was once common knowledge. I don't know if it's the dreams, the paranoia, or my own suspicions. I used to listen to the doctors over lunch (sometimes their dinner). It was hard not to listen. They would prattle on about their research, some activity that excited them, gave them hope for progress

Sometimes it frightened them too.

I take a few pictures before I'm aware that, I am taking pictures. What for? I don't know. Residue from last time when I… I took pictures of something. The camera ate up what I saw, what I witnessed. I would feed it the horror I am subjected to, and in turn it would protect what was left of me when nothing of me was left to remember. My mind was going. If I stay here, I'll be lost.

I leave the house of false hope and trail along the wall, passing a large pipe connected to the ceiling and its end vanished through the cement of the floor. Overhead pipes branch and angle, dispersing the gas through the separate chambers of the furnace. I reach a door left ajar and nudge it open. The interior is foul, thick with the heavy sent of gas. But there must be bodies in this room, hidden or left over. I use the night vision to scan the room over briefly before I turn to the wall, and view the metal panels. Column of two, a dozen in a row. Morgue. It's a morgue. To store the bodies before they are burned.

A lone table rests center of the room, a few rusted tools lay atop it. I step a little further into the room, until I can see the back wall and the large wash basins there. The other side holds lockers but I won't bother to check them. I leave and shut the door, and cough up the residue of sour air that clings to my throat.

I pass a large storage crate and keep moving, entering a chain link fence. I hesitate, fearful I'll emerge on the other side and the Cannibal will be there. The heat is still vivid on my skin, my arm and hands detest the cooler air. I'm careful to peer around a cement pillar, but there's no sound aside from pipes hissing and the roar of the fire bellowing. It draws my mind from the tingle, from unnatural sensations working around in my muscles.

A sharp hiss sends me stumbling back but nearly immediately I've calmed, I know the harsh shrill of the saw better than anything. It's only a pipe, foul steams spits from a loose bolt or gasket, or something. It's hot, and I avoid further burns by creeping under it and continue to a door that seeps out of the gloom. The frame is wrapped, I have to shove my shoulder against it to jar it loose.

There's very little in the room. The gas is noxious and I feel my head spinning as I move along the fence set up to block off the back of the room. Beside the door rests the large containers of gas for the furnace, and the back of the room is reserved for tools and maintenance to the crematorium. Shelves of steel bolted to the walls, a large pipe for distributing the gas from the vats. I walk along the fence searching for direction, a vent to deliver me. There is nothing. It's a dead end, but it's safe here. I don't linger long before I exit.

The other side of the crematorium is visible beyond the chain link fence. I see the makeshift pallet crates built to store piping, and I see the tray visible with the charred body I had pulled from the oven. There's no evidence of the Cannibal and the door he had burst from is shut.

I return to the back of the furnace, where I had first tumbled from the wall. Where did I go? The night vision was dimming and so I changed out the battery. This didn't help me, only extended my sight and capacity to see. There was no place to go, no path or danger but I had nowhere just the same. Inactivity would destroy me if some other presence didn't.

The exit is locked, the door boarded up from the opposite side. Was there anything beyond the door, or did it just open up into another section of the asylum? Into a hospital? I doubt it, but this place had a habit of insulting your worst nightmares.

I whirled around when a shriek struck out against the brick walls. I had to turn the camera up in time to view a flailing shape fall, the body screaming before it collides with the brick roof of the oven and cut off. The walls echoed with the cry perpetually, as the glass walls of my cell had clamored with my own shrill consecutively. When I…

I stagger and fall against the furnace, the brick radiates with the heat broiling inside. I tremble and press the camera to my temple fighting to hold off, to evade shapes twisting. Skulls swell and stretch into fetus like structures, bulging eyes like bird eyes and suddenly there are wings coiling about my face. Suffocating wings filled with soot. I gasping for air and smell only the gas and oil thick in my skin, and bodies cooking in the oven. I buckle forward trying to vomit, but there is nothing in me. I convulse a few times making horrid sounds that do nothing to ease my sudden sickness. Its impossible to lean this far forward, nearly folded in half. I topple sideways and brace my arm over a pipe.

It's smooth and warm, but it's not a pipe. Still dazed, I cradle the camera to my chest as I look up. From the angle of the light I can make out the sheen of rungs in a ladder. A ladder that leads to the top of the furnace, where the body had fallen from the chewed up wound in the ceiling.

Rather scale the rungs immediately I wait beside it, and let my body have the moment to recuperate. I didn't think I would get more than three steps before I'd fall. While waiting, I gripped the base until my knuckles were white, to verify the ladder would not run, would not frighten and retreat into the shadows where it had been hiding. I didn't want to hurt it, just wanted to climb it then it could be on its way.

Christ, what am I thinking? I've personified a ladder. But the dark metal was somehow comforting, crawling from the shadows when I had nearly been left lost. Had it always been here? Or had I missed it when I moved to view the corpse?

I looked to where the body lay stretched under the dagger of light, arm stretched to the promise of Exit. Even when he had believed he had reached sanctuary, he did not make it. The thought caused me to shudder, that I could be at the very breath of freedom, and still collapse. His liberation had been an illusion, but in his heart he had believed he was free.

Climbing up the ladder was easier than I envisioned. If I had been truly sick to my stomach I might not have had the capacity to reach the top without a pause or effort. When I reached the top, I found the man that had fallen. His body was twisted and broken among huge pipes that fed the furnace natural gas. A few cracks from the fires constant pecking, had allowed a few of the yellow flames to peek through the top. I stood on my heel as I examined above, the edge of the hole worked into the ceiling hanging over the furnace. Whatever had caused this calamity, natural or disaster, it had a small compliment and my thanks, but I hoped to never meet in my state the truth that had caused it.

There was no easy way to climb up, and the gargantuan pipes were too hot to set a foot on. A wood frame exposed from the cement offered some grip, and rebar thrust from the eroded cement made the climb possible. I stuffed the camera in the pouch and zipped it shut, then jumped and grasped the wood frame beneath the ceilings wound. The old board creaked in my grip but it seemed to hold my weight enough that I chanced to swing a leg up, and loop my foot through the links of rebar. I took a few breaths to brace myself, then hauled up my leg and used it to hold my weight as my arms pulled me the rest of the way up.

I scratch my arms over the cement as I crawled across the floor, and tugged my leg out of the rebar. I lay for a moment panting, trying to loosen my muscles from the exertion. I was getting the hang of this, I would get through it.

The pipes ran from the base of the floor, framed by metal and wood built around the tangle of metal rising higher and higher into the cyclone of brick above. I fished out the camera and checked my surroundings, there wasn't much aside from the dark pipes coated in dust. I reminded myself that the dust was most likely from people. Coprses disposed of in the most economical and sanitary way possible. To maintain high standing profits, of course.

I stumbled around the base, on the uneven floor reinforced by large metal beams fastened into what remained of the brick floor. Debris had fallen from somewhere, rotten and scorched wood. I looked up and saw only the inky black coil about the range of the enhanced vision, and the edges of a makeshift wood floor further above. Large crates had been stacked beside the large pipes, and I carefully climbed up. I pause to listen as the air hisses, it's just a draft. Natural occurrences. Heat and gases within the furnace, nothing to panic over.

The crates wobble as I stand up to view my range. The makeshift timber wall of support is adhered to smaller pipes and frame work, above it I can see the scorched wood and smoke thickening into heavy bellows of black ash rising out of the crumbling stacks of the huge chimneys. My eyes water and I hack as I get a lungful of the soot. The crematorium, the bodies burning. Dry ash sticks to my moist brow.

Fire is used to cleanse. I don't feel as though it aids my already filthy jumper.

Not far above my head is a ledge of wood, the sides worn away. Where I stand I have little confidence that I could make the jump and drag up, but where else did I have to go? I looked down and marveled at how high I was. It didn't seem high when I was crawling up, but now it did. Or it was the perspective. I'm not going back.

I stuck the camera strap between my teeth and tried not to touch it with my tongue. I leap and catch the ledge under my arms, and for a moment my legs dangle in open air. Don't overthink it, don't. I swing a leg up over the side and use it to leverage myself up. I clawed away from the side and took the camera from my mouth, and shuffled over the worn wood. The platform creaks under my weight but it as a whole felt steady, it was just noisy.

The frame structure built for the maintenance crews didn't appear sturdy enough in most areas to carry my weight, and I wouldn't trust it above a thirty foot drop. A small space was left beside a support brace, constructed along the wall curving wall. I held the side of the wood frame of the chimney as I placed my foot to the brace and scooted along. If I was careful and didn't lose my balance, I could creep along. But to where? Where was I going?

Prison Block.

When I reached that place, what would I do?

I sat down on the platforms top before tackling the ledge, to gather my resolve and look through the notebook. There was a radio, I would call for help.

I put the notepad and the camera way, then, trusted my balance to the cement brace. It was easier than I thought. I just went slow and tried not to look down. I had to pause to hack at the harsh smog filling the large chimney, and fought my mind not to envision where the foul smell originated from. Don't dwell over it. Keep moving. Steady and slow, don't look down.

The chimney hissed as the fires burned deep in its heart. There arose a rasping, hissing shrill coming from the top of the furnace. Little by little the sound caused my mind to panic, the bright blooms of white igniting, the stretching membranes pressed into my eyes. No. Here? It was HERE?!

Not far from the walls ledge another stationary platform was built. Hang on. The rickety boards were covered by plywood, a few crates and pipes lay about to cause demise if I'm not careful. Calm. Stay calm! I forced myself to stop before I began to sway on my thin perch, my toes slipping over the edge of the cement path. It was here somewhere but I couldn't see, I held the camera beside the hot wall and I refused to trust my balance to take my fist from the wall. Its grating wail rattled through my brain, vibrated inside my skull. Somewhere below me, or all around me, I couldn't decide.

Looking down, I debated if jumping now would be less painful. If that was an acceptable escape. I had to fight my muscles not to lock up, and keep me from tumbling head over heels into the flames poking through the oven far-far below. The body jumped, he found escape. It was the only way.

The rasp faded, and the strange twirling carousel of pain slipped from my skull entirely. I scooted the rest of the way along the thin ledge and toppled over the loose plywood, and managed to crash over a small crate waiting beside the crushed edge of the platform. The span of parched timber tore off, down and down to the section of floor that had crumbled away. It was barely visible below now, in the swirling haze. I sink to my knees dangerously close to the edge, a board compressed under my weight and moaned, cracking. Falling. One of the two-by-fours beneath me did snap free, and spiraled off into the gloom. A distant clatter raised, subdued.

Another dead end. I turned my eyes from temptation and found above, a black sinkhole of shadows mingling in the ceiling - or floor above where - where cement had decayed in the intolerable conditions of the furnace. Some of the crates and timber reached high enough to it, if I stood on top of the crates.

Internally, I groaned to myself. I counted myself among some form of good fortune, overlooked as I was when the shade, it was the shade, swooped by. But was I certain that I saw what I thought I saw? I didn't actually see anything. Just the flash of suggestion in the steam, and the wounds of my mind fabricating a suitable horror. It was trapped in the plastic quarantine area. It couldn't escape that place.

Could it?

* * *

**School's been kind of a dick. My classes consist mostly of graphs and 'how to be a punctual asshole.' I whole heartily apologize for the unreasonable lateness of this chapter. **

**Weylon tries not to fuck up the camera, but he's really bad at not fucking up the camera. Miles can drop his camera down two floors of the asylum and still find and use it. All Weylon has to do is touch the camera and its shorts out. He's master the night vision and how to take pictures though, wee...**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hungry Camera**

There are not suitable foot holds in the frame built around the chimney. I survey the area one more time as I lay, recovering. The boards are thick and nailed together, encircling the smoke stacks as though termite riddled wood could hold the heavy metal if it ever decided to collapse. Overhead the smoke bellowed black from the tops of the pipes, somewhere, in the perpetual gray clouds swirling. The air is thick and hard to breath, its charred scent burns my throat as I struggle for clean air between the grinding black walls. Small scrapes of light punch through the smog, falling across the tops of crumbling brick swallowing up the furnace.

I wanted to reach out, touch the light. Hold it. Feel it on my skin. Let natural light warm my body through, and stave off the perpetual cold of the shadows. But it was far, far beyond my grasp.

I climb to my feet and judge the height, before I leap and take the edge. I cough against the camera strap as I feel my moist fingers drag over wood. Stale blood trickles between my teeth as I snort, struggling to get pull my body up. With a bit of force I get my bruised hip to raise my leg, then I'm able to pull/roll up over the wooden platform. I crawl from the edge as the clawing distortions work behind my eyes, the blood in my head pulses against my eyes as the flashes bleach and brighten with white intensity.

Just… god, why? The static. How do I escape the static?

I crumple beside a vent, its interior end blocked by sturdy metal bars. I rub at my knuckles and bite harder on the camera strap until the winding pain draws back to wherever within me it dwells. The back of my skull. The forefront of my sinuses. For a second I don't smell the thick smog eating the brick and ash, I smell soap. Then, I understand I don't smell it. I remember the scent, it's all in my head. This revelation makes me sick to my stomach, and I pause as I lift myself. The wave of nausea settles, leaving a viscous hot flavor in the back of my throat. It passes quickly but I'm still hesitant to move, fearful of aggravating another wave of dry heaving. It's too much for me.

The platform of rotten wood is set up around the chimney. I know what it's for, but I don't want to dwell over its purpose particularly. I peer around the side to see a few crates set up at the edge, and a stereo perched atop them. There's nothing beyond the ledge, and it's a terrible place to stash your stereo. But it was old and outdated, and losing it would only be a minor irritation to whoever it killed when it hit them below. That was kind of dangerous.

At my toes was a broken grate, the metal front of a vent cover. I knelt down and peered inside with the camera. A light came from below the short path that extended, to a a vent in the floor. I thought of the man I had seen, fallen from above? He could have climbed all that way and just fallen. Unless he came up from here. He had to have emerged from somewhere. There was another detail of this debate that I was missing, but I couldn't be bothered with it now. I was headed this way, I would keep going this way.

Unless I wanted to jump. I might break the camera. I need it on me when I die, to verify who the corpse was. I wanted it clutched in my hands, so the first sane person to find my body would know I had been fighting to protect the camera, and that the camera was somehow vital to everything here.

I didn't bother to pull it from my teeth as I used my arms to steady my movement through the vent. I perched at the edge and looked down, straining to see in the hot blaze of a light below. I wouldn't see shadows but I could see the area, a few crates stacked questionably below. I wanted to admire the person that stacked the crates then used them to crawl into the vent, but they were probably insane. I gripped the edge of the sharp metal and lowered myself, before I dropped.

Another corridor, a pipe beside the wall was precursor to the black veil swirling beyond. The air felt calm, only the traces of rot lingered. I rubbed the sweat from my eyes and was alarmed by the blood. Until I recalled, there was blood on my chin. Still was. I felt sick all over.

Behind my poise was a gate, the barrier seemed to hold the wavering forms from spilling around the crates I stood upon. It made me uneasy, but I crawled off the stack and approached the door. It was locked with chains, and I couldn't pull the door away enough that I might crawl through without risk getting stuck. The idea was unfavorable, on the other side of the door lay the corpse and the source of the pungent air.

I whirl on my heel when a thud sounds, and press back into the gate shutting it with a thunderous _CLACK! _ The crates I had stepped down from had tipped and fallen over, blocking the left side of the hall. I didn't bother going around, after all the climbing and exercise. I went ahead and swung over the box sitting on the floor and moved onward, toward the inviting shadows ahead.

The visor filled with a green tinted corridor, and another gate that lost its door. I edged around the corner confident there was nothing here, that the sounds would bounce enough and would pick out the danger before it happened upon me. The hall took a left and led a ways to a set of termite infused steps leading further down, to a brick wall lined with pipes and pipes, and valves, and more valves than I could count. I paused to listen and felt some relief that the only sound was my breath and the faint creak of wood under my feet. The furnace was below here? Yes. I could smell the soot still, or was that me? The thick scent of scorched bodies was worse than the rotten scrub I wore.

I shuddered as I remembered. Calming down, when I didn't panic, my mind was effortlessly able to rewind, trifle through memories unmolested by transparent shapes. I didn't want to remember, and struggled to wash away the confusion and fear. My heart began to beat and I sat for a moment to let my senses ease out, get a grip before I went on. I needed to think.

Laughter lingers at my ears. Not maniacal, cruel, or sick laughter. But laughter of pure ecstasy. Squeals of joy and warmth. Little hands holding the back of my collar, because that's as far as those arms could reach. I'm filled with an agonizing warmth that harms worse than the furnace and the flames, the emotion is so raw and lost I am terrified when it swells though my chest. Then all at once it's gone.

Like a malicious trick.

Cool drafts work through the thin fabric of the jumper, and I come back little by little. I'm trapped somewhere in Mount Massive with only a brief taste of light to prove the world beyond is still there, that somewhere the sun still shines warm and free. I must claim it.

One arm is wrapped over my shoulder and my fingers knit into the fabric of my collar. Do I… do I have children? Me? Am I really Waylon Park? I don't recall regarding my wife much the day that… When did I ever look at her picture? I try and think. Think carefully

I lower my arm and hold the camera in my palms. It was strict regulation, we weren't allowed many personal items. Electronics. It was on a slip somewhere, in that long white contract full of words and dates. We could order through the company, Murkoff provided for us. Kept us compliant and quiet. They warned us.

Then I smile. I have a taste of memory, a vibrant flare of joy tinged with concern. Contentment. We didn't have much. I remember THAT. The yard sale before we moved, so the boys could have new backpacks for school. It made the move easier, a fresh start.

The hall is cold. I work my way to the right through another gate. Sounds come from a distant place. I pause and listen but I can't identify the direction, one end of the corridor, I can't tell. By my perception all the walls are brick, and sound wouldn't move through easily. The ceiling is high overhead, but within the range of the camera that I can see the thick outline of bricks. There are vents overhead, it is possible sound from elsewhere was trickling in. I didn't feel reassured. The vents had traffic.

More of the large gas pipes run on the wall to my left, from the ones I encountered at the other the end of the corridor. I thought they would be connected to the furnace below, but they feel frigid.

The corridor passes through another broken gate, and takes a right up a set of wood steps. At the top of the steps is storage room filled with shelves and various tools. Equipment and pipes for repairing the wood floors and the pipes to the furnace. The fire never slept.

The cameras enhancement illuminates more of the room as I reach the halls end, and there lies the body beyond the gate, now before me. I recall that the camera is recording but say nothing. It's another security operative, there are bare feet prints around his aged cloth and oozing flesh. The layers of feet stains fade in the direction from where I came from. I pull the walkie talkie from his belt and take the battery, then, sit myself down and compare my feet to the dead guard's shoes. They're not too bloody. However, my feet are somehow too big? I didn't think I did the comparison right but I didn't bother to make certain, what little light hit the dead man's face brightened a strange coloration of puss at his lips and nose. I didn't need his shoes, if they didn't fit in the first place. If I knew my luck, his ankles would dissolve when I tried to untie the shoelaces.

A dead end. A loop. I stand and approach the gate and peer into the light where the crates had fallen. I suppose it's always an option, to jump. There would be no going back, once I made the decision. Even if I realized my mistake, I wouldn't have long to regret the choice. No more running, no more panic. No more fear, no more worry. No more life.

But I can't give up. I can't. So much I didn't get to do. So much I haven't said yet. So many new things I haven't heard. They're real, I know they're real. And I'm real. I'll get home to them. One form or another, good intents or not I'll find my way home. I'll make it right.

The dark corridor seems much shorter, as I return to the intersection and the pipes and valves, and valves and pipes. I run my free hand along the wall as I walk beneath the warm lamp, the only light source in the entire corridor. The brick is warm to the touch and sturdy, my reddened fingers tips become black from the soot lifted on my gummy fingers.

Another light blazes through the shroud of dark awaiting, partially hidden by a thick pipe running to and from the ceiling. The air has lost the smoky scent and has become stale, like a place that has been bottled up with old books and curtains. An attic scent. I get a vivid image of Lisa's parents home, and the old attic where we pulled down crystal for the wedding.

I didn't much like the hot, stuffy attic.

At the top of the steps awaits another gate, door missing. I check the frame curious if a door had ever been used, and if it was removed or stolen. It had hinges but that was the most my inspection could offer. While the silence was placid, I raised the camera and changed out the battery. Water was dripping from a pipe, condensation or something. I wanted to believe it was water. The truth would be terrible, I didn't want to find the source of the drip or the glazed eyes gazing with something of resentment. So many, in so many different ways. No end.

I study the perimeter that the enhancement can gather. The corridor has become something more like the asylum and less like the crematorium. A large vent stretches across the ceiling, from the surface of a wall to a wall across from it, above a door frame. As I'm moving toward the open doorway, the sounds come through the dark clear and loud. I backpedal away from the threshold believing that It is right there beside me!

I cringe beside the metal gate but see nothing. The sound grinds down easily and I recognize it for what it is. The saw. Possible worse than the shade.

The shrill comes as before, but it sounds further away and muffled. In another room? He wouldn't know I'm here, he must have found someone else to hunt. I don't envy them, but I hope they have earned his vacant gaze.

Without further prompt I turn, and still crawling make way to the light. I can keep it in mind as I return to the place of the crates. Up the wood steps, between the brick walls, through the dark cloak. I exit the gate into the light and peer up at the vent, high above the despondent crates and wonder. It was a long drop, I'm amazed the crates didn't tumble when I had dropped down upon them. Even if I stacked them, I wouldn't be able to reach the vent.

If I reached the vent? Where would I go? I came from that side, it was a dead end, I saw so myself. But there was more than a climb beyond the vent. If I thought hard, if I kept my focus. I could see the large chimneys puffing smog. I could remember how high I climbed. Was it high enough to escape?

Was my fate inevitable? Whatever form it took? Dead was dead. Gone forever. No more.

I pulled at the ruffled collar of the jumper and thought of tiny hands. Sleepy hands. Hands that thought they needed to hold tight, because I would one day leave forever. They didn't know these inevitable truths back then, but daddies could leave forever too. Just like pets.

A strangled sound came from me as I pushed away from the sooty wall. I had so far to go, so far yet. Have to keep moving. Somehow, I had to find what I was looking for. Get out of here and take whatever I find with me.

The corridor seems cold upon my return. The phantom drip insists of its presence, but I don't care to meet it. I crouch as I creep under the dark veil. There's no evidence to the danger, no sound from it either. I crawl forward, camera held close to my face. The battery icon in the visor reveals the cameras power was partially used. I'd try and keep that in mind, but if I could see it, it wouldn't be easily forgotten.

The room I've crawled into, beneath the connecting vent. There's hardly anything to explore. I'm able to shut off the cameras view feed due to a lamp that has fallen on the floor, across from the doorway. The room itself reflects much of the asylums current state. Rubbish and cardboard flattened into the rotten carpet, the residue of ash kicks up as I shuffle along the wall. A desk is on the other side of the room, the incomplete remains of a mattress linger, and a cracked book shelf.

I pick at the mounds of files and pages left around the desk, much of it faded from the hard press of time. I have to pause a moment to decide what it is I am doing. The papers have significance but now that I have given it a moment to let my mind wander over 'why?', I find no answer to supply. I inquire the long worn question and find the answer easily.

Prison Block.

But I do not know how to reach the Prison Block, and I don't know where I am in the grand scheme of things. I focus on the pages once more, most are notices and long winded reports dating back to 1920s. Words like 'hypnosis' and 'suggestion' are constantly used. I'm thinking of the sleep therapy, things the doctors only talked about below a whisper when they thought anyone in ear shot wasn't paying attention.

Someone was always listening.

I drop a handful of papers and hold my head as I kneel low over the filthy carpet. They kept mentioning 'guided sleep.' It's not as painful as it could be, but I feel compelled to buckle forward over my knees and wrap my arms over my chest. As though to keep something from wrestling loose. Curved elk horns, solid and somewhat spiny along the ends. Growing and twisting from the center of my brain. It's like… it's like I've drawn back into my skull and I see out, and the center lines of my sinus cavity. The revelation makes me moan out as I roll onto my side.

A slow chill works its way through each nick in my Spine. I sputter as I rock into sudden recovery, the whiplash takes my breath away. Carefully, I struggle onto my feet but the panic and unease haven't let up yet, and I stand before the only door out of the room. I have the camera and don't realize I don't need it here, the light behind me is bright enough to cast a full shadow on the bleached wall beside the door frame. Something was… a miss. Was I supposed to be doing something here? Did I come into this room for a reason?

There was a sound. I turned my head up as it grew louder and louder, it was coming my way. But, I figured this out after some confusion. It wasn't foot falls on the floor. It was the calamity of a body tumbling through a metal container. Through the vent, above my head.

I quietly shuffled into the shadow of the doorway and watched the ceiling as the metal coffin shuddered under each assault of its contents. The noises gradually move off, and I'm certain I heard mumbling or sobbing attached to it. The frantic noises had barely died away, moved into some distant edge of the galaxy, when I heard something else. A horrible slow eerie scraping that seemed to follow the exact path of the more human sounds.

Even with the always present drip of liquid somewhere, the noise seemed vast and cavernous. Somehow the night vision made the area the opposite of what my instincts craved. I missed the claustrophobia, the confining and closeness of the walls. In the long dark corridor, it felt as if I'd turn around and bumped into something that had been waiting in the dark. A shape or misty outline the light couldn't describe, with its prisms and colors, angles and evidence.

The hall came to a T, and the wall to greet me had faded pictures of the asylums staff, or its founders still hanging. I turn and check to the right, trying the door and peering through the mesh window into a cluttered corridor light years away. I picked at some of the broken Plexiglas alongside the doorframe but it was impossibly hard despite the damage. I scraped at my finger with my thumbnail when some of the shard embedded with my skin.

The door at my back was open, but no more welcoming. I stood before it studying the cracked glass, the dark space beyond wavering with the allusion of danger, and the reality of looming mortaility. Everyday, don't we die? A little bit each day, every time we breathe? Oxygen is poisonous in small amounts and it takes eighty-three years at most to kill us. No. That's wrong. What am I thinking?

Nothing important.

A harsh draft hit me when I entered through the doorframe. I lowered the camera to rub my arms across each other, determined to ignite some sparks on my stiff flesh. The air was sour and thick with mildew, I gagged on it an wheezed at the same time the winding shriek called to me. I thought it was right above me in the vents, and I dropped to my knees. After listening to the sound I realized it wasn't the shade.

That's right. The saw. The Cannibal. He was here, I don't know why but he was here.

If I keep going, there's a high probability I'm going to run into him. If he doesn't find me first. Unless, I can find a way out of here, out of this place. Don't even know WHERE I am. This is a problem haunting me, I was looking for a map. That's what I needed. A map might not be the shield and dagger I needed, but it would give me a fighting chance. A fighting chance. A chance was all I wanted. I can't believe I've survived this long.

"There! I told you it would be open. I told you."

I pressed back into the wall as the figures darted by. It took a depressing amount of time for my eyes to recognize them for what they were, even with the aid of the night vision evaporating most of the constricting shroud of the corridor. Several lucid people passed, I lost count after the first shape startled me. Each one of them on the other side of a nailed and board up door, block-aid by furniture of every kind, the cracked windows and wide gaping bars teased my mind.

"Keep moving, Graham," a younger voice shouts. "We're almost out!"

Shadows keep playing through my head. Shadows and figures, people that barely look human. Scarred hands and faces, gauze plastered to their eyes. Then shadows, more shadows, and shadows. Stretching across the wall, shrieking into my ankles. I jerk away slapping at my feet until they're no longer crawling over my toes. I shudder, the sensation of their cold little bodies. I can't get away, ankles shackled. Can't live...

"We're almost out!" The voices echoes distant, far, somewhere. I wonder if I saw people run by, or if I was only seeing shadows. So many shadows creeping into the tint of the cameras green range. I turn the camera off and shut my eyes, content to sit in the dark until my heart steadies.

But there's never peace.

It bores into my skin and tickles my nerves, charging each cell it infects. I try to stave off the sensation, distract my minds with memories, thoughts, but it only makes the constriction worse. I'm struggling to take in air as I stand and move along the hall, towards the shattered windows in the barred door. I cannot get through there, but there is light. There is some sort of shrine in the light, reassurance that my eyes will see what the camera refuses.

I want to go to where the shadows have gone. I turn into the doorway directly on my left, the direction they had gone. A small office, a dead end — broken wheelchairs, pictures of forgotten men, dead men, debris, and a desk. Two desk. Maybe a dozen desks. There is no door in the threshold, no windows to salvation. Just dark and the shapes that thrive there.

When I move along the wall my feet struggle over the rubbish left stacked everywhere on the floor, and half blind I hit the wall and hit a metal rod. It falls over with a clatter that the world could hear, and I stand in the silent dark staring at the floor in the visor. I shut the cameras enhancement off when I refuse to budge, and instead wait tense in the black veil trying to ignore what my mind insists is there.

There's nothing. I must keep moving.

I felt my way along the wall, the loose surface of plaster crumbles under my fingertips as I trail a direction to the doorway. It was simple enough to see without wasting too much battery life, if I maneuvered across from the light and the barred door that denied our union. My nerves had eased enough I could raise the camera, confident a face wouldn't be glaring back through the visor.

A sound came from somewhere distant, not the next room. I paused n crossing the corridor and concentrated, it didn't alarm me immediately. I took that as a positive sign. It was thumping? People running, some sort of collision or natural disaster? This place was falling part.

The people I saw. I saw people run by, not shadows. They had shadows.

I linger at the doorway listening, but the sounds have faded. There's always… some energy, some action in the background. I could feel it. The tension, paranoia. Something was always happening even if you weren't there to witness it, it could be felt. Somehow. It was palpable, like walking into a cloud of hot energy. Charged and rolling through the air in humid waves, not visible until it was too late.

It was a larger office, or library, or file storage for forgotten memories. The things they wanted to leave to decay. I nearly fell when a mildewed folded tore open under my feet, causing me to drop on my butt. I didn't get up in haste as I should have, but sat and scanned the distant walls through the camera. A few large rows of shelves had been set up through the room, with enough space between the broken furniture and the wall that I could crawl through? What of the shelves remained were stuffed with the ratty memories of long forgotten books, and the odd folder or depressed and slumped cardboard box. A desk was on one side of the wall, in the opposite corner was a calamity of filing cabinets torn open, papers everywhere, most of the metal monoliths were tinged with rust and the air held the metallic scent of pseudo death. It reminded me of the old archives basement at Berkley.

I used the cabinets near me to haul myself up, barely having the sense to be grateful I'd not dropped the camera. It was strapped tightly to my hand, but I had not recognized a vague danger presented and really, I couldn't be bothered. This detail was soon forgotten when I put pressure on my free hand. It hurt. It hurt like it was already hurt, somehow.

The idea that I should know damn well why, infuriated me. I'd be running around, trying to find my way out, and I couldn't recall at what point and where I had hurt my hand.

What if… What if I didn't get better? What if I only get worse, until I completely lost my mind? I'll forget about getting out, I'll forget about my boys, my wife. Lisa. I don't want to lose anymore of the good things that I do have left in this world, the only shred of my life that matters now. I can't let them go.

Have they let me go? Already?

I moved beyond the rows of shelves and stand in the dark, the tremor in my muscles suddenly quiet. So quiet, I miss the feeling. It's terrible. It's worse than I can imagine. I want it back to make me forget, distract me from the venomous doubt that drags through my veins. No. Lisa would never. She's too good, too perfect.

Did I….

Did I make her up?

The revelation is too much and my vision blurs, distorting. I haven't the mind to do anything more with the camera, than let the arm it was tangled with drop and hit my thigh. A cloud of dust rises as I drop to my hands. I don't think I can do this. I can't take another step. I try to blink through the haze, clear my vision despite the oppressive black curtain swirling through my eyelids. I cough and clear my throat, the air's too thick. Heavy like ink pouring down my throat. I gag and wheeze, and sniffle on the harsh rank air.

Pathetic. I'm so pathetic. Can't escape my doubt riddled mind. What if I had a fantasy life? And what if everything I thought, was an illusion? Who cares? It got me this far.

I touched the belt around my waist and like that, a spark flared in my brain clearing the pulsing lead in my veins. I fish through the pockets until I find a wadded up sheet of paper. This. This is proof.

I reread the chilling note through the green hue of the night vision. My distaste for Jeremy Blaire seethes like a rash; while the gentle warmth for that special someone, my soul mate bristles. She knew Murkoff was bad, shared my suspicions. She wouldn't rest until she saw them buried. My Mrs. Park.

A sound slipped through my ears. I broke from my revere as it grew louder, refusing to stay distant and subdued, a backdrop of my thoughts. I clutched the page in my hand and scoot back, colliding with something in the dark that was cold and smelled of old wood. I huddle down in the dark as the soft traipsing paused. Everything in the air and walls became still, I held my breath and gazed at the wall suffocating my thoughts. Absolute silence.

Jesus, what could it be? A survivor? A patient? Whoever it was, they would keep moving if I stayed quiet. I felt the camera in my hand and lifted it and checked the visor. The gradual steps resume, and I watched as a tall figure rounded the edge of a door frame. I took a short breath and shut my eyes, barely able to watch as He stepped into the room.

The Cannibal. I'd forgotten about him through the short twisting thoughts that plagued me. I had suspected he was here, but I had forgotten. I. Had. Forgotten.

"I can smell you." He stopped at the open door, the saw whirred as he touched the trigger. The trigger ran along the blade, and it could be compressed to deliver fuel to the motor. A horrible smell of burning gas and pneumatic fluid seeped into the air, around a swell of copper and thick decay.

My impulse was to bolt, but I for once locked my muscles and held my ground. He's trying to psyche you. Move, you're dead. Wait Him out. He'll get bored and move on eventually. He will.

Easier said than done. It's one thing to watch the danger behind the glass, while you're safe on the other side. It'll be fine. But when you don't know, when you've lost all control of the situation. When no one's there to tell you what to do, where to go. The walls come down, the illusion is gone.

I chewed at my cut lip. My muscles were starting to ache from the cramped position I had left myself beside the wood obstruction. I dare not shift. I could barely take a breath, there was too much dust. Shallow breaths, fight the clawing in your throat.

He took a step further into the room and stood, beside a shelf of books at the wall near the doorway. How could he see? How could he SEE? Maybe he didn't. He knew this path well, knew the sounds in the walls that guide him. He focused on them, let the vibrations guide his skin.

"I said, I can smell you." He moved across the carpet and allowed the saw to swing beside his thigh. He came to the front of the row of bookshelves and swayed, as if deciding which way to go now.

My eyes watered from the smell. Rot, blood, and unrestrained body odor. He was a walking cadaver, dragged out of a hot car in some alley in New York. Days and weeks left in the hot sun baking, his greasy flesh had curdled, guts bloated with methane gases. I stifled the reflex to gag, and instead clutched the paper in my hand a tighter to my chest.

It crinkled.

The drawn out silence of the room seemed to rock at that pivotal moment. I lowered the camera as I shoved my feet under my body, propelling up, away from the bookshelves. In the inky wall, I saw him turn to me and his eyes gleamed within the black slate that greeted my eyes.

"Dinner bells!"

I couldn't see where I had charged and collided with the edge of something hard, a bright flare of red sliced through my eyes as, did the odd stretching membranes and fetus growths corrupt and vomiting bulbous growths across the floor. It must've saved my life, for I felt the gust of air from the saw where it whirred over my face and rammed into something hard that was not me. The Cannibal cursed something in anger, and I felt hot crumbs brush over my ears as I crawled on my elbows and knees in the opposite direction of the guttural sounds. A sheet of paper was clutched in my grip. Important. I stuffed it into my jumpers top and scrambled onward, away and somewhere far in the shadows falling over me. The sharp screech of the blade was not fading in my retreat.

On your feet! On your feet!

I jammed the camera visor over my face as I used my free hand to latch onto the crumbling corner of a bookshelf at my side, and pull and jerk, and finally haul upwards onto my feet. The shelf shifted when supplied my leverage but held and didn't fall. I was stumbled away as the Cannibal began screaming at my backside.

The saw! It was the saw!

The edge of the bookshelf shot into view and tucked down to my left, barreling by the side. I shot to the back of the room to wherever – salvation, damnation, both were the same, had the same conclusion. Don't fall, stay on your feet. I saw another opening and a dark maw beyond the next door frame and went for that.

A mound of clutter, broken furniture and wires twisted under foot as I flew into the room. I barely had the moment to react as an overturned desk lifted from the dark edges of the visor. I toppled over it and crashed to the wall in the rooms back and spun, scanning the area over, a small room. My eyes found lockers, crushed mattresses and more clutter, all to impede my steps as I floundered around the chaotic mess. I was unable to get my footing, there was always something sharp to jab into my arch as I struggled. I couldn't watch where I stepped and where I was going, while evading—

"You're mine! Mine I say!" The Cannibal tore into the room crushing glass and other chunks of wood and metal, underfoot as he charged straight for me, saw buzzing.

Near center of the room stood a medical skeleton, some of its pieces missing. I lumbered to it as the saw and its wielder closed in. I hadn't thought to fend off the man and power saw with a rotten skeleton, I had thought to hide behind it. I snatched the pole and tipped it over, into the path of the Cannibal's saw. The moan he emitted was oddly sympathetic, but I didn't have the time to check his face. I saw sparks fly as the saw bit through the rib cage, and the clatter of metal as the blade ate through the white flint. The action had momentarily caught the Cannibal offguard, giving me precious seconds to make a safe dash around his side and out the door.

The corridor stretched to my right, pale light pouring through tall windows. Dark, cut out shapes flutter over my eyes as I struggled with the idea of seeing, and processing the intense glimmer to brave the asylums gloomy depths. I slowed my steps to admire the dull color of day; it was fresh and almost visible through the muddy glass. Mountains. Were those lumps beyond the blotched windows, mountains? I could stop. I could wipe a spot clean and see the day. See the world and what became of it since the time I had been lost. How… how long since I had seen the sun? How long had I been hidden away, forgotten from the world? Exiled.

"Fresh meat! Game meat!"

My legs took off and I had to catch them in order to keep up. I clutched the camera to my chest, while I moved through the small scraps of fresh light. If it was my last, however pitiful, I wanted to enjoy it. I wove around various crushed chunks of furniture, something cold and wet oozed underfoot as I zipped over a collapsed mattress. Along the walls loiter the remains of makeshift crates and torn apart pallets, or chairs. Plywood and other materials dragged through? For barricading doorways. Had they been doing this, while I was working? I did work for Murkoff, didn't I? Why did the idea of barricading doors, seem so bizarre?

I snatched at a door on my sudden left, but the handle was locked. The Cannibal was close by, I could smell the blood and the grease of the drill as I tore away. Another door in my path was blocked, but a shattered door frame on my left led into a long corridor filled with black. The curtain dissolved quickly as I moved, cutting through the dust that swirled with rapid passion around my blurred feet, and the figure that hounded. I shield my eyes as I sprint under a pulsating lamp, and blearily noted the door on my left, probably locked, but my pursuer was too near for me to give it proper examination. Corner. Hall ends, I'll be cornered. Death, death is the only conclusion. Doors locked, corner soon.

Shouldn't have gotten lost. Should have stayed focused! I kept running, praying there would be a room I could dive into. A door that could be locked. A hole I could curl up and die in. The corridor went on and on, endless and hungry.

A jumble of broken desks appear just as I raised the night vision. I get my legs up and skid over the dusty surface of a desk, but fail to catch myself as I come down on the other side. The Cannibal and a series of bed frames flash across the visor, until I stagger out of my tumble and continue running, nearly falling down again before balance is regained. I duck around bedframes and a broken wheelchair, all the while the saws shriek grows steadily louder, under the sharp gasps of my pursuer as he screams 'mine!' and 'meat!' over and over. It rings in my skull, my peripheral tinged with swirling globs of ink. The sound cuts through my thoughts, lashes at my mind. Death. The corner is filled with death and bones.

Finally, a door! I skid into the surface grabbing at rough wood. I refuse to look up, see death. Get the door open, slam it in his face.

The door is locked. Or is it jammed? I slam my shoulder into the surface and feel it give. Once more, as metal catches a stray feather of light. I've lowered the camera to focus on the door, I cannot see where he is or how far he has to move. He was close—

I shove backwards, away as the saw cleaves the open air. I hear it hit and grind, the blade works well on flesh and bone but it doesn't eat dry things well.

"Just hold still," his voice hovers in the heavy veil. I'm pushing myself away as the saw quiets, but I hear his foot falls. "Just hold still and let me, let me—"

I flip over and crash into a wooden chair. I drop sideways, knee throbbing, head spinning. Where do I go? How do I get out of this!? I have the camera, but there is no path. Just the dead end built of bones. Not bones, I figure after I blink at the dark brown surface. I kick away and struggle, hit something as I fight through. Broken furniture, all of it. A fine silt covers each leg and flat surface, a gust of dust hits me in the eyes as something knocks over. The saw calls for me, I choke and dig away.

"Don't let me waste you!" He's very close. The saw shrieks near my face, missing by inches as I crawl away into a dark cuvee. "Come back!" I shove the chair away from my legs, and take something cold and metal, large. A cabinet! I snag its side with my fingers and jerk it out, a little bit. I can't see where I'm going, but I can feel the musty carpet as I fumble around for a path. The saw wails out as it finds the cabinet and the hall alights briefly with sparks.

For a moment I see the Cannibal, and he sees me.

I wedge myself between the cabinet and another large undefined thing in the dark. I drag my body through as a hand grapples for my legs and ankle. I kick blindly and crawl on my stomach under the wall, bumping my head occasionally on whatever my eyes miss, whatever is suspended over and around me. The Cannibal struggles and shrieks, trying to climb over the obstruction or tear it down. He might cut himself into pieces and toss each over.

It isn't far, where the blockade ends. There's light and plastic, a plastic wall. The containment area. I sit beside the furniture pieces and stare at the red light within the languid walls flashing red, the sirens that I'd thought I lost are somewhere in the distance. I try to reflect where I've been, what I've done but… it's muggy in my mind.

The shrieks eventually fade beyond the broken bookcases, mattresses, whatever wasn't nailed to the floor; thrust into the corridor. To hold him out? To hold something away. I can't… I remember what. A blockade of furniture wouldn't stop it. Nothing. Nothing could stop it now. Not even the quarantine had doors to confine it.

I didn't want to sit and wait, lose time; risk offering the Cannibal another chance to find me. But I was shivering too hard. I wrapped my arms around my knees and sat staring at the strobe as it flashes in the ceiling of that far away room. I had seen it before, haven't I? It felt so long ago, so far away, distant, isolated from me. I struggled with my mind to recall every red strobe I had seen blazing warning. The task was impossible. I try a few more times.

I tried.

The next room was another disaster. The dark corridor I had sat in had one door across from the room, but the door was nailed shut. I shuffled on my knees and hand to the open entrance of the room and sat staring at the scene. What was left behind when Mount Massive was first shut down. Everything left to decay right where it stood. An ancient broken wheelchair, a heater hanging from its rusted pipe in the wall. A graveyard of wooden chairs had been stacked in the corner of the room furthest from me, and another of the large bookcases was crushed into the carpet. Everywhere, books, rubble and pages from years of just existing.

For a moment I admired the ornate walls buried beneath it all. Managed to appreciate craftsmanship for what it was. The polished walls and ceiling, though aged and faded, must've been a sight when the Asylum was new. This place would make a wonderful home, if not for all the murder and cruel intents. It was such a shame.

Honest work. That's what I wanted. I thought that's what I would get. Told me to keep my head down, mouth shut. Did I know? I think I did. Why did I come here?

Something crinkles against my chest as I take a breath and I remember, the page. I unzip the top of my jumper in order to fish out the crumpled sheet of paper and read over the lines. This is why I was here. I was trying to do the right thing. I keep forgetting. Why do I keep forgetting?

I sat beside the doorway staring into the room. Sirens in the distance, people dying in the halls. Monsters lurk in the shadows, and something worse yet lingered.

Time. I needed time. It would heal, and it would all come back. It's like… I've suffered a head injury, and I might not be the same, but I can try. I can cope. I can fix this. I'll do what needs to get done, and I'll do it right this time.

I looked at the camera clutched to my chest. It had so much on it already, but it could hold so much more. I folded up the sheet of paper and carefully put it into one of the pouches on my belt. With the camera I film over what is visible throughout the room, the decrepit bookshelves, the plastic wall, the strobe light. And so much yet to find and see, and the camera would eat up everything.

* * *

**Poor guy**


	9. Chapter 9

**A Little Disaster**

Once I had recovered to the point I could stand without tripping, I braved the harsh light of the room and examined the two opposing doors. The nearest door had a plate reading public restroom. I entered with some distant burning hope there might be a small port at the top of the room, or some hole I could crawl out through. For an unexplained reason my sense of direction insisted that there should be a window or opening where I could see the outside, smell fresh air. But there was nothing but walls, carved decorative pillars, and infinity between me and the raw sunlight.

Like honey. Raw honey on warm toast, the bright morning rays piercing the kitchen window and falling on breakfast at the table.

The bathroom was drafty and cold. It felt clean, in its own way. Maybe because the air didn't reek of bleach and I wasn't distracted by false disinfectant. The hard wood was warped and littered with splinters. I tried to step on the numerous pieces of trash scattered, and succeeded in evading the most of the woods bite. At the back sat the stalls, a mere two. One side was urinals, and the other wall was lined with sinks. I stare blearily at the urinals and thought it was the weirdest thing to put urinals, even in a public restroom like this. Wouldn't that be risking employee gender tension, or something? Most company's were careful about that sort of thing.

Then I recall that this was Murkoff. I didn't bother to correct that train of thought with the fact Murkoff followed Mount Massive, or other nitpicking details.

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the shattered mirror, the movement startled me and I nearly ducked out of the room before I realized the movement was reflected, somewhat. Through the dust and damage to the mirror I couldn't see my shape well, just a scrawny figure timidly approaching the shimmering puddle above the sinks. I was curious to rub away some of the haze and reveal what would be staring back.

Do you ever remember staring at your reflection? Like you were looking at someone else, but it was YOU and you knew that person. Or, should you know the person that meets your eyes each morning, and know them better than anything in the world. Think about someone you know really well and try to recall every feature of their face, every detail from a mole to the color of their hair. Someone you've looked at every day for your entire life. You probably can remember the way they look, maybe better than you would know your own reflection.

Maybe that's why. Maybe that's why, I realized with despair, I couldn't remember what I looked like. I didn't want to see what I looked like, after the Engine had run rampant through my mind. In my mind was an impression, muddled and vague by the blur of faces I had seen. Red, anguished, and bitter rage. None of that was me. What I did have, shoulders, feet, and an untamed plop of hair. Leave it at that for now.

I took my palm from the murky glass, and settled to wash the soot and puss from my hands instead. I had sores from somewhere. My only indication was heat and the black water running down the sink. The water was tepid and perfect, and it smelt void of anything tainting, bleach or metal, or mildew. Just water from the aquifer. I pushed my sleeves back over my arms a little more. My jumper remained foul and I had no thoughts to its preservation, but the water was soothing to my bruises. I leaned over and drank some of the fluid, coughing instantly to the flood of salt and grit in my mouth. Blood. I'd forgotten about the blood. Who was the blood from?

The thought sickened me. But somewhere in my head, the answer was supplied. You. Your blood. It tastes like your blood. I don't know what made my stomach ache more.

I retracted from the small reprieve as though stung, and listened. The hail of warning called like a memory, but I heard another sound. A familiar sort of song.

Voices.

I shut the tap off, took the camera off the sink and retreated to the furthest stall. I turn the little latch on the shut door, and then climbed up on the toilet bowl to perch and listen. The sounds grew more forceful and reverberated off the dull plaster walls. My arms tightened over my thighs as the door to the bathroom crashed open, and the sobs became crashed in waves over the walls. Someone was mumbling and crying as another voice, forceful and hot screamed at the other. The way the sounds bounced I could tell the harsh voice was upright, while the wounded noises came from the open space beneath the stalls door. I scooted over the toilet bowl more and nearly lost my balance.

"Get in there! Get n'there, now!"

The other voice began to speak, before it was cut off. The door of my stall rattled but the latch held, and the violence soon drifted to a cubby of easier access. I sat jaw locked, eyes ready to tear out of their sockets. The lock held. Thank god, I locked the door.

"NO! No—" The voice choked off to gurgling, and water began spilling over the floor from the stall beside me. The thin walls that boxed in each stall rattled with spastic strikes, so intense I thought for certain the walls would collapse around us. My muscles began to burn from my cramp position, wound up the way I was. I didn't know if I should burst out now and risk running or wait.

"Who am I!?" The voice was struggling now, panting and shrieking. The bathroom was pounding with the action, the rage. I could feel the hot atmosphere, the charge. I could feel how much he hated. "Don't you—"

Should I try to help? Who… should I help?

A quick plea came through as water was gulped down. A thick puddle had formed around the toilet bowl I sat atop, and I was afraid to take a breath. It would be audible, the little gasp. Even over the din of violence. And it would go silent in a instant. Then, I'd be in an abandoned room with nothing but cold drafts and the whirring echo twisting in the nerves of my ear drums. Whispering….

Without prompt I uncoiled my body and sat on the edge of the porcelain bowl, and allowed my feet to touch the surface of the puddle. It was icy. I pushed upright and dithered, before gently turning the latch in the door. I pushed the stall open and stood at its edge, gazing at the open doorway across from me. I don't recall leaving the door open.

"What'd you say? What'd you say, Doctor!" Whatever sound the victim intended was cut off, as more bubbling and gushing water followed.

I stared down at my feet, watching as the red seeped off my skin into the cold water. My heart thudded in my chest, painful and alive. It hurt to survive. Hurt to live.

The door to the stall of punishment was not shut fully, and I took the edge to draw it open and peer inside. That wave of malice soured the air in my throat and I gasped, releasing the door as it swung outward. The patient was bent over a filthy and drenched figure in a white coat, one hand wrapped about the back of his throat and the other locked on the struggling man's arm. I took a step back prepared to run, coiling the muscles in my legs and prepared to take off, as the patient paused in his insults to draw back from the target of frustrations. From what is visible he was unmarred, clothed, with new hair sprouting on his head. He said nothing, just turned to look at the intruder.

Stopped to glance my way.

The man in the coat gagged when oxygen hit his lungs, his hands clawed at the chain shackled wrist of his punisher. I stared at the patient and he watched me, while the man thrashed futilely in his grip. Without a word the patient resumed his toil, and shoved the man's face back into the toilet bowl, a new wave of cold water gushed out the edges and splattered the floor as the doomed man dug his fingers into the porcelain bowl in utter desperation.

I stood there for too long, jaw slung down as I beheld the slow process of death. I've seen people die in too many ways. To many different ways, all in one day. It was too much for one man to bear witness. I've never seen a dead person outside a coffin, never watched a man die before. I… I can't watch another person die. Don't make me.

I lean forward over the cold water and draw the door shut on the scene. Never again did the patient pause in his labor or give notice. I was out of his mind for now.

I forget I was mistaken as a patient. They didn't care about me, I was one of their own. 'Gooble gobble, gooble gobble.' In that way I was protected. I had earned my passage.

As I moved back I realized the camera in hand, was angled forward and had probably captured the entire event. I was disgusted, but the feeling was fleeting. The doctors may not have all been greedy profit collectors willing to lose a few people in the name of science (or profit), but many did earn their ill fate in this place.

None of the patients began like this. I… remember. It's painful but I do remember. Before the Engine, the people that sent me down this path. I could be losing myself as bad as they were.

I leaned against the wall, beside the graveyard of wood chairs. Sent me here. Saved me, somehow by damning me. I didn't like what was being done, what the doctors talked about. I was right. I could be right about too many things. Losing my mind. Was I lost in the process. God, I don't know. I thought escaping the Engine would somehow save me. Was there no way to purge my mind of it?

Then a new thought clutched at my skull, clambered through the gray matter and into my brain. Burrowed deep in the skin and flooded my senses with this new revelation. I pressed my knuckles into the rough wood and dropped to my knees as that taste coated my throat, and the flashes of white swirled. The things my mind conjured. I picked up whatever I saw and translated it outward, into my environment. Oh god, why was I doing this? But I had a twinge that I knew. That I suspected more than I wanted to admit, and whenever I clawed near the truth my mind supplied, I withdrew my thoughts from a truth so painful it just might shatter my sanity completely.

Was the reason I couldn't escape the Engine? Was because it wasn't in my mind. It was inside me?

"_Lisa, or whoever finds this, know that Murkoff is making monsters. I'd never seen the patients after they'd gone through that German's so-called therapy. The Engine. So much worse than I could have imagined. They may still be human, but something's been ripped out of them. And too many… other things pushed back in. They were not all murderers. They were sick, but they weren't killers. Murkoff made them monsters._

_Dr. Roset said the engine had "varying effects," the variant outcomes too erratic for any sort of prediction. I took it as idle cafeteria small talk, Raul's endless chatter. I should have listened."_

The notepad was beside my knee as I scrawled the words down. I held the camera by my leg as I used my other hand to write, and slip the pen back into the spiral notebook. I flipped it closed and fitted it back into its pouch. I ran my hand over the belt struggling to lock memories in place, reduce my forgetfulness.

One pocket contained batteries and the notepad, one pouch had a pocket knife, but it was tiny and useless as a weapon. I kept it anyway, just in case. A pouch near my backside contained a heavy object. I took out the cylindrical item and saw that it was a can of soup? Where did I get this? I put it away, and recalled where I had stashed that note. The very important note. The one that had the capacity to enrage, terrifying, and grieve all in one hurricane of emotions.

I pulled the door shut on the strangled sobs and shrieks of rage. The noise of the siren filled my ears, the black surge of the corridor hid me as I began to move. I activated the cameras enhancement and paused to listen to the steady hissing. I thought for a moment it was the shade, but before the panic set in my mind had already picked out the chemical scent strong in the air. The chemical was from something vital. Something They worshipped.

The walls of the hall were lined with thick plastic, and braced with two by fours. Another room converted into smaller sections, hamster tube networks. I stumbled on the ruble left everywhere on the floor, I couldn't see clearly what it was while I navigated my surroundings. The natural wall of the asylum extends along one side, and a large alcove reveals another locked gate. Boards and furniture pinned to the outside of the metal bars, an effective deterrent whether the door itself was locked or not. I limp when I stub my toe on some heavy item on the ground, the pain worked up my knee and into my spine. Why did stubbed toes hurt so much?

I could smell the chemical gas, and hear it hissing from its nest in the pipes. I examined the poor state of the floor and came to an understanding, one I should have picked up on sooner. I was outside the walls this time, still outside the plastic quarantine. When did I leave the walls?

I moved beside the metal wall, connected to the molded plaster of the asylum. Plastic was attached to the metal, apart of Murkoff's addition. There was a tear in the corner I could easily slip through but I moved beside the wall, and where my path seemed clearest. After a few feet trailing the plastic, I located a large cut out, the frayed plastic dotted and smeared by deep crimson. I kept going, until I was across from the door I entered from and returned back to the opening I had bypassed.

The body crumpled within the plastic hall startled me. Long streaks of red trailed beyond the corner of the corridor, toward another tear in the plastic containment near a metal box with a glass front. Its contents were distorted through the cameras enhancement, fluffy and tinted with refracted light. I stopped before the corner to give the body brief consideration, film it even, though it sickened me. I felt a knot working in my stomach, but I tried to remember that this would be vital later. I didn't actually believe it would. How could displaying a mutilated corpse be essential to anything?

Someone could recognize the deceased? Identify them if they can't retrieve the body? I don't know.

The usual bundle of cables ran the length of the corridor overhead, along with the large pipe. The pipe was stuffed into the edge of the corridors ceiling. I worked to visualize other corridors with these pipes, there was something different about these? Some of the valve channels had been damaged from pressure, or another mishap had come to them. The connecting joints spewed the foul chemical in the plastic corridor, effectively covering the undertone of rot that haunted the hall. I smacked my tongue. The chemical had an odd familiar sort of taste. It wasn't a chemical as I remember it described, but natural? Organic? That sounded outrageous under Murkoff's description, but it was true. It was bitter and tangy, but harmless I decided. The purge gates would fill with it, then, suction out. No side effects. It was guaranteed safe for the staff, but I knew… doctors wore the respirators because they had misgivings.

Doctors always seemed to see the fine print.

The purge gate around the corner appeared damaged. The doors didn't react on my approach and gas had clouded the entire chamber. The panel beside the Plexiglas doors displayed the red lock. Above the clear doors, I gazed detached from the meaning of the words EXIT. It promised so much, yet effortlessly steal away my drive. How many Exits have I seen? How many have I entered? It was probably zero stacked to a reasonable, but high number. This place was full of lies.

I turned my eyes down as a figure materialized in the haze, misty and rasping at the clear panels. It clawed at the glass and bore into my soul with dark sockets.

I panicked and sprang backwards, even as the shape began to make sounds. Speaking. My god, it was speaking! It was human! Hurt, he's hurt!

"Turn it off…" he screamed, mist swirling at his face. He pounds his hands upon the glass and a shady familiar scenario plays out in my head. Distant. Like a dream.

"_You have to help me_!"

"Shut down the gas!" His voice is strained. He screams with the raw flesh of his lungs bleeding, struggling to make me hear. "Please, I can't…" He cuts off to deep hacking. I watched, as he grips his throat with one hand and drops to his knees.

I fall down before him throwing my hands upon the clear surface, trying to make him see that I've heard and understand. "I— I'll get you out," my own voice grates. My words are barely audible above the hissing pipes. "Hang in there. Hang in there." I hit at the surface separating us, but the shock absorbing material refuses to permit reverberations. The man has taken to cringing down as low as he can beneath the onslaught, or he's hunting for fresh air seeping through the airtight cracks.

I give the Plexiglas one last pat before I push myself up and turn away. Where? How do I cut off the pipes?

The large pipe overhead. I could follow that. It would lead to the main valve, unless the path was blocked by nanohazard doors. That seemed likely, but if patients had come through to trim out doors I might find an indirect path to those damn primary tanks.

As I moved back the way I had come, along the plastic wall, I gave the purge gate a last glimpse. He was no longer visible through the swirling wall.

My foot caught on the corpses arm as I staggered around the corner. It disgusted me more than startled, but I collected myself quickly as I moved. I looked through the visor and the green hue as the hall darkened.

Two large tanks formed as I hastened my steps and foolishly let my hopes escalate, before I approached them and realized it was more spare materials. Backups. The pipe overhead did turn into the next corridor and I followed, my steps slowed as the lingering threats wisped through my tattered memories. Someone had killed all these peoples. The guard lying on the side of the metal floor, at the end of the corridor I now approach. I was never safe. Something always lurked, eyes would always be watching.

I shield my eyes from the strobe overhead as I near the purge gate sitting in the walls side. The doors did not react on my approach, and the panel beside them informed they were Inactive. No doubt, no surprise. I had wasted precious time.

I poked at the guard lying beside the doors, before I hurried back. He had a walkie talkie but someone had already liberated the batteries. I don't recall coming this way, but chances are it wasn't me. Someone else was wandering around looting corpses for batteries?

There was sign no indication of the man within the purge chamber upon my return. I paused to think over what I needed to do but I was frantic, and calming myself to think straight was a difficult. Nearly impossible. I was going to fuck this up too. Kill a man, because I was unable to do my job right. Oh god, what did I need to do? How do I fix this? Main valve. Where would they be?

My only option was a large opening in the plastic containment wall, beside the metal purge chamber. The container thrust out from the wall a distance, and I knew as I shuffled past it that the person inside could be either dying or dead. Don't lose focus. Don't get lost.

I was lying to myself now.

The idea that he could be a murderer, he could be dangerous. That never crossed my mind. I didn't even get a good look at him, save for his face. But his words were so desperate, sick. He was at the edge of death. I couldn't bear to watch another man die. It was killing me a little each time, and each time I had willingly done nothing. But what could I do?

I hesitate as the floorboards croaked under my weight. On this side of the plastic, blocked from the echoes, it was calm. I looked up at the tall windows, high in the tastefully constructed wall. Dark Maple carved, and slants nailed in place to fit around small window slots meant for light but not scenery. Not in an asylum when containment was the priority. I didn't care, I wanted to stop and admire what scenery was visible through the marred glass. But I had to move, it wasn't the time to lose precious moments. If not for his sake, then mine. I was still alive.

The space between the plastic wall and the asylum's natural structure opened up, into the portion of the room not cloaked by quarantine. Furniture was scattered across the floor, books and other refuse as well. I grew anxious when the night vision failed to activate and scolded myself. What had I done this time?

Battery. I forgot to change out the blasted battery.

For the hell of it I tossed it to the other end of the room and let it bounce off the ornate pillar there, then clattered into the shadows and slithering over the floor. I only needed the cameras shadow searing feature to see where my feet were going, there were so many odd items, small things that bite into the under arch of your foot and it hurt. I regretted never picking up shoes.

The side of the room was built partially of a wood base with the decorative glass as the bulk of the upper fraction. I would have surrendered to the inevitable of smashing through the windows, had they not already suffered traumatic damage. There was one opening torn out nearest the far wall that I could fit through. I took a cracked piece of board from the floor and used it to smooth the edges and brush more of the glass from the frame base it was ripped from. Looking through to the other side, I noted the plastic walls cutting through the same rooms. To make a single path from one end of the larger room to that of the next room, by cutting through the offices. Damage throughout the asylum may not have been due to abandonment, but if I was thinking right, Murkoff wasn't too careful when they 'remodeled' the rooms throughout the building. They gutted the facility and put their containment crap everywhere in their haste to begin work.

I crawled through the window, and stood on the cool floor. The light was mercilessly bright, and the dust swirled from my movement. I coughed at it as I held my head, as my memories spun. Under the mountain. That's where I worked. Software consultant. Computers, right. I lost a lot of it, kept losing it. I was dragging each snippet back if I could help it, as they flittered through my mind. Didn't I want to remember? No. Not particularly but…

That guy. Getting lost, gotta keep moving.

I checked my right and left, listening for sounds. The siren was constant company, but I didn't want to let it go yet. The noise helped, it kept my mind from sinking into repetition. My left was an open corridor, a wheelchair and other pieces of shattered memorable. My right was a short path that led to the plastic walling, I could view the area I had explored earlier on the other side. And the door there, in the wall.

Across from me was an open doorway that led in the direction I had hope that the gas controls were. Inside the short corridor was more furniture, chairs, some sort of cord. Spare cord when they were lacing the place for control. The suggestion of 'control' was now laughable. We were all going to die and no one would ever know Why.

The corridor came to an end, and there a desk had been left sitting before a flat of shattered Plexiglas. Whatever was beyond the window was impossible to make out through the distorted glass in the green tint of the visor. I nearly turned back, but noticed a few pages and files left out. There was a desk drawer pulled out, the front cracked off. The edges of the desk where the drawer must have fit were splint, and fresh wood was revealed. I picked up a few and took them to the light. I didn't have time to stop and read them, but I flipped through a few skimming the contents before I let them drop, leaving them behind and building breadcrumb trail after me.

One caught my eye, but I don't know why.

_EXCERPT FROM 1957 AND COMMENT ON IG REPORT "OPERATIONS OF TSD"_

_7\. Influencing Human Behavior_

_e. The potential use of psychochemicals in political actions operations is well recognized, although it has not been explored as thoroughly as might be expected. Chemical Division includes it as an objective of its program to be prepared to support or make such operations possible. Non-chemical methods are also included in the program._

_Note: ( /April 15, 1958) Present the above MKULTRA excerpt to Technical Services Division for budgeting and authorization of continued research into research of Dr. Rudolf Wernicke (asset 14866) and project WALRIDER. Autopsy of recovered test subjects shows chemical content of bodies (metallic tumors, evidence of sub-dermal combustion) that indicated heavy psychochemical dosage. (See note: . .1938)_

Half of it I didn't understand. It was the medical babble the scientists and researches i_loved_/i to dribble during lunch. Some of it began to make some semblance of sense in my head, after a week of careful listening and deciphering.

"…_shiny new cancers."_

I needed to have this later, but I didn't want it confused with the other sheet, the important one. I had a way to keep this, to duplicate it without carrying it.

I was holding a damn camera.

I took some quick pictures, able to recall how to do it without freaking out. The picture capture button, a few clicks. I don't think they were all clear, but it could be fixed up later. I think. No. Yes. That would be best.

I hurried through into the shadows, already trained to stuff my face into the visor when the dark shapes swirled. I had lost too much time. A part of me didn't want to admit there was no hope, I couldn't do this. The outcome was inevitable, but you never know. I didn't plan to leave him to die if there was any hope to save the guy. Maybe it was stupid to push myself like this, get careless in my haste for a doomed soul. I would feel peace in the end, if I did give a valid effort. All that mattered was my intentions were good, no matter the consequences.

A door on the side was barred shut with heavy plywood, and a desk propped beside it for good measure. There was no way over, I kept going by the wheelchair half stumbling on the floor as the boards cracked under foot. I staggered to a stop when a sharp clatter came from the next door. It was harsh, drowning out the vapor spewing from pipes and the call of sirens. I moved forward a step at a time, hesitant to proceed but with limited options. The sounds came not rhythmic, but constant and some short pauses. I could define in the wood's abuse, when it began to buckle, but it wasn't someone trying to tear a door down.

The door before me was left ajar. I pushed it in straining when the hinges ground tight. The hall was short, a bookshelf crumbling by my shoulder, one other wall with built in shelves and a few cabinets with a counter on top of them. Laundry. Or were they allowed to build rockets here, back in the day. Just focus. The crunch of wood was three steps and a doorknob away.

I thought of the man dying. Thought of standing here until I knew good and well he was smothered and cold. The thought made my stomach turn. I can't do that. Indirect murder. Someone's knocking, I should let them in.

The handle was warm in my grip, and I spun it to wrench back quickly. I spasm in place when my eyes are snatched by the man standing behind the door, red spilling down his face and staining his shirt. I moved the camera so its right in front of my nose, protecting my face or the expression I shed. The dazed man stands a moment as more blood drips down his cheeks.

'Gooble gobble.'

He sways in place before he pivots and walks away. I let out a small breath and watch as he crosses to the other end of the room—he's standing behind a counter—he moves to stand before an identical door and slams his face against the dull wood.

He does this again and again, never stopping, periodic pauses as he adjusts his footing but he never stops.

Crack!

Clack!

Whack!

I've moved the camera to the center of my chest, with the light of the next room fully spilling into my eyes. I move further into the room and examine the visible space over. The office is mostly in one piece, a stack of crates has fallen over the side of the desk to my right and a few desks and chairs have been left on the opposite side of the counter. I touch the surface working my mind to process, I know this. This cold hard surface, I've seen it before. Not here. But where?

Cool, hard, polished. Dusty. It's covered in dust, it sticks to my palm as I raise my hand.

I opt to crawl over the granite top rather crawl through the open space beneath. I felt like I should stay accustomed to awkward movement, if I have to run and leap into somewhere high. It would benefit me to anticipate the motions.

The flashing bulb on the other side is nearly missed as I turn away. I have had enough of flashing bulbs. But it's level with my eyes and blinding, I glance over my shoulder to see the panel it's alit on. A panel with numerous numbers.

I click off the night vision as I move closer to study the number. A room. This facility was full of rooms, it was only hundreds and thousands of rooms. Two thirty-seven.

The high wall beside the crates has cabinets, but of the visible shelves through the meshed fronts reveals nothing to be gained in sifting through each cupboard. There are lockers along the wall beside me, but I don't bother to root through them. The dull thudding from the patient is frightening and obnoxious, but it is a reminder that I am unbothered while disguised as a patient. I was a patient. I didn't want to be, but they made me. I would recover, it would take time and I had matters to work on in the meantime.

Stay occupied. It was safest.

I found the door on the other side of the room, opposite the panel of numbers and the lone red light. I pulled the door open peering into a corridor that averted from the lamps beyond the shattered glass at my side, into a dark pit. The door on my right was nailed tight with boards and the glass framed around it was cracked but holding. I gave the knob a rattle as I turned from it, only to confirm the door was very locked.

The green hue of the visor reminded me of the spray from the purge chamber. The thought of the man plagued me, though I knew I was doing all in my power to rescue him. It wouldn't be enough.

A doorframe rimmed by shattered glass stood in my path, the door ripped from its hinges was propped beside the wall on the other side. The distant noises of the patient self-mutilating pulsed in my mind, and I struggled no to envision blossoming shapes. I've been doing good so far, just needed to keep calm. Don't panic. Stay focused.

Hard to repeat this axiom while I dove deeper into the shadows and the wavering charge perpetually present, slipping through my muscles as easily as the air slipped over my skin. The odd tingle rolled up my toes and legs, I was trying to flick it off my skin as I stepped through the door. It was just trash, pages from files crumbling into the carpet. It didn't help to remind myself, and I had to lean in the doorframe to rub at my ankles before I proceeded.

Bed frames had been stuffed into the corridor on my right. Just over their peak I could make out the soft burn of a strobe, bright like a star in the cameras enhancement. The path on my left was open, I stepped over a rough piece of plywood as I moved between the walls, eyes trained to the little visor I owed my life to. I winced when I recalled that this too, was helping me. The Murkoff camera. It was Murkoff's, and I had taken it. And it was saving my life. The irony of all this was painful to bear, and chilling. I didn't want to admit I owed them anything, after what they had done.

The harsh drum of the patients head to the door crept after me, sharp and clear. I couldn't get a good heading where the noise raised from, I didn't care to figure it out either. If I had not been disguised as a patient, would he have come for me? Realized I needed to be punished for the terrible deeds I had performed?

I think he would have.

What drove him to remodel his skull structure, I wondered? A form of escape, through concussion? Or was it to do with this place? What was left inside their minds? I remember the rumors on the guided sleep. Dream therapy through suggestion. Was that right? Wait, no. I'm thinking of something else. I saw elevator gates, skulls in X-rays. I'm losing myself. Lost my way.

I trot by a cracked desk, perched sideways. I reached the only door in the corridor, framed with blotched Plexiglas and fixed with a durable mesh in its center. I lower the camera and take the handle, it turns smoothly in my grip and I push the door open. A gurney stained with foul colors sat parallel with the door. I dragged the door shut after me and pressed my back against it. The further I moved away from the trapped figure, the more the failure set in. I couldn't save him. I just couldn't save him.

There might still be a chance, I argued in my head. It didn't matter if I couldn't get the doors open, the gas just needed to be cut off. I only had to find the main valves.

To my right it a long dark stretch black. The light above clarifies the dull gray bars of some obstruction, in my path. A bed frame. I know the shape by glimpse now. My left, the light extends a few feet further and I can make out the shapes of mattresses slanted beside the wall on the left. Most of the carpet has been eaten by insects and rotted away, while plaster has fallen from the ceiling and walls to litter the exposed boards beneath. I could make out a few doors.

Pulsing light.

It glimmered through at the very end of a dark and long road, and every step I took towards it the star retreated back many, many meters. But I knew I could catch it if I kept going, if I never relented and followed it until dusk. That bright star, that blood red star glimmering above an inky and deep ocean with a surface as flat as the thick, charcoal sky above it. I dove into the water and swam deeper and deeper, losing myself to the crushing pressure of the abyss. When I could no longer hold my breath I drew in a breath and suffocated on the black water, salty and icy. Water filled my lungs, burbled as it flooded my sinuses and filled my body. I sank deeper, holding the camera tighter in my hand and felt the warmth of its case burning into my palms.

When I opened my eyes and looked down, I saw the crematorium buried in the basement. Charred and broken bones were scattered around it, and the chimneys spewed thick gray clouds of ash and embers. At the edge of the oven stood Jeremy Blair in his business soot and with a shovel. He took shovels full of pages and books and stoked the fires of the oven with them. The heat didn't seem to bother Jeremy, he hadn't even broken out in a sweat.

To my horror, Jeremy Blair turned his eyes up to me and set the shovel against the ash beneath his feet and leaned on its handle. "On behalf of the Murkoff corporation," he said, through a grin. "I would like to thank you personally for your contribution to the Morphogenic Therapy. You've done the company a service."

As he resumed throwing crisp pages into the inferno, I felt myself falling. I swung my arms as I swept past the edge of the chimney, the dark bellows of smog absorbed my body and pulled me deeper into their dark, black heart. And at the pit of the black ash was an ember, gleaming against the smothering confines where there was no oxygen and no hope of survival. The whining of a churning mechanism wound into my brain, twisting my spinal cord over its hot finger roasting each nerve ending it popped free. The shrill reached such a peak my sight distorted, until the dark shapes resembled stretched membrane.

Then I realized the sound was me. I was groaning under my breath, as I dug my fingernails into the side of my face with one hand and cut into the other side with the camera.

Oh god, what happened? What happened?! I was staring at… the light. I took a few short breaths and let the stale air settle my lungs, the scent of chemical and soot slammed into me, driving out another whine. I was slumped into a bed frame, and the wall. Had I fallen? My head throbbed, but it was the usual agony that drilled when I gave pause. When I lost focus, let the swarming figures drag me deep. I didn't hit my head. I wouldn't be conscious now if I did. I don't know.

I stifle my mutterings when a door, down the hall from me, a door opens and slams. Someone's there. Who could it be? Jeremy? Was he roaming? Or did he duck out at the first signs of the disaster? I listen as the steps move along the wall, on my left side. He thuds at each door, muffled sounds that break and pause. The noise reverberates in my head, and I know what that sound is. I'm sure. Thudding, ear splitting cracks with a blunt object. Covered in skin. His face.

The steps drew near, and I remain in my slouch; to terrified, and maybe a bit curious, to who could be there.

And then he speaks. Fire, cold light, and a sharp shriek slice through my mind. A timid sound creeps through my lungs, and I coil down into the wall further. If I could dig down anymore, I would replace the plaster.

"Is that your meat, I hear?"

He was too close. Knew I was here, and nearly on top of me. I couldn't see through the dark corridor, but as I turn my eyes up I can define his oily hairline as it creeps into the range of the glimmering light.

I rip out of the stupor and charge under the glaring lamp above the door. The Cannibal exclaims a sound of delight and toggles the motor of the saw. The first door is along the corridor, a few feet from a stained and foul smelling gurney. To my astonishment the door opens, but there is nothing within the room to aid my escape. The room is a dead end, with two beds and two filthy mattresses. I'm distracted momentarily by the windows and the drapes, but the scream of the Cannibal jerked me back into here.

Mattresses were stacked along the hall on my left, and a few other doors were reveled as I hurried with the cameras enhancement gleaming green in my eyes. All the doors were locked along the left side of the hall, or were boarded up. The grainy squeal of the blade passed into the dark shade, of the portion of the hall I was in. He was moving quickly, jogging to find me and end the chase. I decided to continue down the hall relying on an unstable barricade, or another sharp turn into more corridor.

The corridor came to a dead end.

I ran into slapping my hands on the surface of the hard plaster. Dead end, I kept repeating. It was a Dead end. DEAD end. The wall felt sturdy and cold as I beat it with my fist, and half considered driving the camera against the hard wall in the hopes it might shatter my curse. Break the wall and open a gateway to another dimension. Even if the journey killed me, it'd be better than getting butchered like a hog and… and….

I spun away when the piercing whine of the tool crashed through the back of my skull. I was nearly physically wounded from my action, but I judged the ravenous Cannibal to be less than a hop skip, or two steps from me. I had lowered the camera, and only saw a dark glob coasting towards me. He chuckled, the sound of it grating as though he garbled gravel. I was sliding away towards a corner, a place to put my back and fend myself off. Piece by piece.

The door now on my left, was open.

I heard him move. He must have seen something in my expression, or noticed the door too. But I ad seen it first, and reacted in the instant before. I dove through the opening, practically head first and kicked the door after me with my foot. I missed by an inch, and only shove the door near the frame when he slammed into it.

In less than five second I had the room evaluated. I was lying upon a bent vent cover and two filthy mattresses coated in dust. The filth layered in the back of my throat when I had gasped upon hitting them. There was a nightstand in the corner of the room, with something on it. In the cameras enhancement, I saw a lone bed frame braced by the wall.

When he tried to force the door open, I swung back into it with my weight and shut the door on his face. He snarled words, something about eating my toes first. The threat was a promise he would break, I didn't think he would keep me alive that long. I hoped to god he didn't keep me alive.

I cringed at the door as he banged and pushed, but I held the knob in one hand and kept my shoulder braced to the side. It wasn't long before the clamor died down completely and the shriek of the saw burned through. I smelt wood burning before I backed off, and raised the camera only to view the saw raise saw dust as it cut through the door sideways near the handle. That won't hold long.

The door creaks open once he successfully dislodged me, but I slammed against the wood panel yet again and forced it shut. He snarled impatiently, and again I picked out the whirl of the blade as he brought it to the wood. I backed off, scanning the room over again from where I was crouched on the floor.

No weapons. Tiny room. I could distract him with the night stand? Same trick won't work twice. I felt the beginnings of the spreading vapors and webs in my eyes, in my mind. I tiled my head up searching for a window, from where I've crouched on the floor.

Above is the open vent. The covers rests beside my knees. It's too high, impossible to climb in my state. If I don't try I will be torn to pieces, chewed up feet first. I choked in my throat. I can't let that happen!

He attempts to force his way in, the door cracks across the front when I throw myself over it and slam the door shut. I back off immediately and grab the bed frame beside the wall, while the saw is dragging its teeth through the weak wood, I haul the heavy frame onto the mattresses. It's too much heavier than I've anticipated, I lost so much time moving it. But it's there, and the Cannibal is working the door handle once again. I take a dangerous last second as I wobble on the bed frame, to glimpse the vent opening before I put the camera strap in my teeth.

I leap up and shove my arms through the opening. I snarl as my feet kick at open air. I hear the voice of my pursuer through the thin metal, snap a demand or insult as he storms into the room. The camera falls from my teeth as I gasp, clawing at the interior of the vent to get up fully inside. The cough of the saw comes from below but I have no idea how close I had been, if he had even nicked me. The sounds below die down and I can hear him, as I lay in the dusty vent. He rummages around, debating if he should follow or wait me out.

I don't wait. As quietly as I can I fumble in the dark, until my hands locate the green outline of the cameras enhancement view. I grumble in my throat, the dust was everywhere and clinging to my clothing as I shuffled along, my rump bumping the ceiling of the vent as I ventured to the end of it.

The vent travels over another room, most likely the one beside the room I had escaped from the Cannibal. The cover is falling off, I could knock it free but that would alert the Cannibal to where I am. I shuffle through the dark and the dust, the dull night feature reminding me of the structure and physical presence of the container I travel. It's several meters before I am forced to stop, the vent takes a vertical climb and there is no way I am getting up that. It wasn't just that I despaired to the physical climb itself, but it deviated from close proximity to the walls.

There was humming, and the dark. Claustrophobia. Most importantly, I feared losing my way in the walls and being buried miles within walls and cold plaster, and never being found. This was a genuine phobia, but I didn't know the name of it.

With reluctance, I crawl back to the wounded cover of the vent above the room. I stare down and listen for sound. There's the distant thump and bump of some force on a door or desk, but I detect there is no threat in those sounds. I linger a while above the vent listening for Him, the Cannibal. Did he give up on catching me? He might still be in the next room, but I didn't want to check.

I put the camera strap between my teeth and lowered down by my arms. There was a bed frame under the vent, but I couldn't decided which would make less sound. I went with the bedframe, and dropped down sending a low shudder through the surrounding floorboards. Once the shock faded from my muscles I crept off the frame, and crawled to the shut door. I gripped the camera in my hand and tried to clear my throat some small bit, before I draw the door open.

The echoes of cracking wood reach me, the same sounds. Distracting. As I linger in the doorframe, there is no sight or sound that identify the Cannibal. Across from the door are the filthy mattresses lined beside the wall. I blink at the harsh light I come in contact with, as I move from the doorway to the other section of the corridor.

"I know you're near."

I stagger and turn back. It came from behind me, I know. I don't see him from where I'm crouched, the lamp overhead is too intense since my brief dive into the darks vents. That, and he's possibly rushing from the very end of the black hall. I launch to my feet and move by a door, frame with Plexiglas. The sounds of crunching come from behind it, and there I see the origins of the splinting sounds. The man with his bloody face and chest gives no pause as I rush by, and only resumes his project. I don't know if I could warn him, if he wanted to be saved. He wasn't aware.

Where was it I had to go? My legs propel me to the end of the hall, yet I fully anticipated a dead end. Had I miss anything? Have I forgotten something?

It feels as though I have. But I can't be bothered with it this moment. I have to survive, have to get away from this monster!

The overturned bed frame nearly cuts my legs out from under me, but I manage to make a short leap over it and continue without a stumble. I slow my steps to get the camera night feature, and see the doors, many doors around me. But there is only one. Yes. The light burning, flashing, pulsing.

I turn my attention to the distant burning coal and hurry to it. Someone was calling, someone need help?

Someone needed help.

I stopped dead in my tracks. The man in the purge chamber, gasping on toxic air melting his lungs. His throat burning on fire as magma as red as blood, spilled from his gelatinous eyeballs and his tongue slid from his throat like a purple slug. I grabbed at my chest and staggered, as the sound of hissing coiled around my ears, digging through my ear drums. It became thunderous.

It took less than six seconds for me to understand, the sound of shrieking was that of a saw on my spine.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Light**

The saw would have had me. It's hot teeth chewing through tissue and bones, my spine ruptured as a chain might be ruined when tossed between the jagged gears of a machine. But I move, swept my backbone just out of reach as the Cannibal fell upon me.

"Feed me! Feed me!" he shrieked, sweeping the weapon out at me. I couldn't see what he was doing or where he was, I had whipped around hunting for the bright light buried at the end of the dark pit. The sour flicker burned my sockets, closer and closer I lopped to it. I reached a door and twisted the knob, it spun loose in my grip; the inner mechanism was snapped, but no greater force was necessary to persuade the door open.

The saw was whirling somewhere lost in the gloom, as hot and hungry for blood and skin as its master was. I caught a glint of eyes accompanied by the shrieking blade whirring into my vision, his crimson streaked body closed in mere moments before I snapped the door shut.

I had absolutely no idea what I was doing here, there was nothing in the room aside from a vacant bed frame, a night stand, and the bent vent resting on the floor. I turned my head up and checked through the green visor to view the gaping cut out in the ceiling above.

It clicked suddenly. The noise, the scraping. Someone had used them to escape. The vents. Through the vents! Patients… People like me? Who couldn't fight, their only choice was to get lost in the network of cold dank tunnels? Hide from the threat that was killing everyone else.

The door rattled, the handle spun wildly like a top, the ravenous man barred away shrieked about bells and hunger. It wasn't long before the shriek of the bone shear tore through, chewing into wood and filling the small room with thick smoke.

The bed was wider than it was tall, so I shoved it over and stepped onto the metal frames side. I stuffed the camera in its pouch before I lunged for the small opening and hoisted myself up by my elbows. The Cannibal continued to bash at the door, even when I began to move along the vent, clambering against the cold walls I couldn't see. One side was blocked by a thick grill. I rotated awkwardly in the cramped space, wincing as I nicked my toes on the sharp edges in the wall. Move. Move it!

At the furthest end I spied some sort of light. I didn't bother with the camera, just kept moving, my eyes locked on the warm blaze. It looked like the grate was even removed, I wouldn't—

My train of thought wrecked when the cover I was creeping over snapped out from under my weight. I dropped, instinctively shoving my feet down under me to brace for impact. I hit the top of a foul mattress, a puff of rotten fiber filled my sinuses as I toppled off the side of the bed and onto the hard wood floor. I lay on my side moaning, the belt that held my stuff bit into my side painfully. Across from where I lay the door cracked in its frame, when someone on the other side fought to tear their way in. I don't know who it was, Cannibal, the Cannibal. I dragged to my feet and stumbled around the next mattress, to another door that was placid and innocent. The shudders ceased from the first door, and I paused before exiting.

The small room was so quiet all at once, enough light was present that I could see the nearby walls. For the time I was alone, and safe. I took a few breaths and managed to clear a bit of dust that was clogging my throat and nose. I snorted, as I turned my attention to the one window at the side of the room above two mattress. The light coming through seemed brighter, or was the window cleaner? Could I clean the window and look out? See what awaited me?

No. No. Can't stay here. Don't tempt myself, no. Have to get away. I don't want to leave the room. It had turned calm, the air settled and the illusion of safety was gently seeping through my skin. Calm. Calm, cool, and steady. It wouldn't last. Couldn't risk it. Can I get back up into the vent?

I decided I could if I really needed to. Maybe. I was getting better at bearing my weight on my arms, but I didn't know how long I could keep it up. A smoldering itch was working through my shoulders warning me not to push it. I would be all right, I could walk fine and let the soreness settle. I could figure out where I was, find where I had to go. I'll figure it out.

The door I stood by patiently awaited my attention. Some of the dry paint cracked over it's surface flittered away as I pressed my palm to it. To my dismay, more windows awaited on the other side. I shut the door gently and glanced to my left, where the moth eaten drapes had been pressed aside to let in the gloom of day tease the shadows, and the prisoners to this place. I nearly moved closer, feeling with certainty I remembered. I remembered warmth and sunlight, and touch and feelings, and everything that was not this place.

It was a bathroom. Tub at the far wall, sink and mirror across from me. The only way out was from where I came, but… I moved to the wall between the sink and tub. Away from the windows, and its illusion of freedom. The plaster was torn out, and the wooden slates in the wall beneath were cracked and some had been pulled out. I could squeeze through. I could keep going this way, get ahead of the Cannibal. This could be better than that light I'd seen, in the vent. If the vents connected to each room, it could have been a matter of time before he outsmarted me. I was weary of climbing up and out of vents, eventually I just won't be able to do it and then what?

I won't think about it. That's what.

The next room is another bathroom. Not identical to the first, it's larger. Toilet across from me, tub to the side, and the sink on the wall I just crawled through. And of course, another window directly in front of me.

I go straight for the door to my side and barely listen, before I pull the barrier of wood back and then linger in the doorframe. A bedroom, patient dormitory. The air was choked with dust and musty cotton, but it wasn't the copper tint, or soured meat. This felt normal. This place could be mistaken as normal. Once long ago abandoned, and I was the first person in years, decades, to set foot in these rooms. The exhilaration made my skin prickle, in part because it made me feel safe, and the idea that I had found something no one had come across in years. It was a special kind of feeling.

The room held two beds, in a corner across from the other, and on the furthest wall was a lone porcelain sink. A cross had fallen from its perch and cracked on the floor, near one of the beds. By that same bed is a book case, falling over and losing its substance to insects. By each bed rests one night stand and a call button.

Flashing strobe. Help.

The gas.

It can't be helped. Didn't stop the bruise to my lingering sense of moral structure, that this was foul, and wrong, and cruel. Why should I feel this way? Why?! I can't help it. I can't help that these things happen! It just happens. In an instant, your life changes. You settle down, have a family. And suddenly, everything's changed. The rules of life change. People look at you in a whole new light. It's as if you've evolved into something else. And sometimes, it can be a beautiful transformation.

And other changes, they can be ugly and horrible.

My body wants to set down for a while, rest. Get my second wind. But my brain, the part that rationalizes and feels, it wants me to go on. I still hold out, I still have faith that I can make something right out of this. Even if the seed I plant grows into a wilting plant. A weed. I would like to watch it grow. See how far it goes. It's the thought that counts.

The warped sheet of plywood left on the floor keeps the boards from creaking too much as I step across. The door is left open by an inch, and I pull it back carefully and peer into the long dank hall. The left side is crammed with bed frames, chipped and bent between the crushing walls. Another room sits open across from me, a bed room. Patient dormitories, or some sort of hospital wing. Mount Massive may have taken in the elderly, like a nursing home.

W-When Lisa's mother was diagnosed with her mental ailment, her father had to quit his job. He was a good man, we got along well. He wasn't particularly fond of me, I don't think. I think Lisa's mom passed away not long ago.

I don't remember what my father looked like either. I don't know if he... I've been out of touch long.

The room had nothing in it. Broken beds, another sink, and a cracked nightstand. A large vent was thrust out into the room above, but the cover was on and to ponder over it as a possible route agitated the callouses at my palms. The door to the room had been torn down and flattened on the floor near my feet. My eyes water from the musty smell and the residue of piss. I returned to the corridor, moving toward my right to the open and lit area. I had to look carefully at the picture on the wall, as I moved into the corridor. It sat above an ugly gurney, and looked just out of place. It was an old canvas painting of horses, majestic mustangs galloping across the open plains. The canvas was faded, the frame falling apart, but it maintained its regal appearance. I wonder… did the horse trample the door of that room?

I reached over and touched it, only to verify I was looking at a picture of horses. The edge that I fingered crumbled away, but no doubt it was solid and real and decaying. But it had been here probably when Mount Massive was first opened. I'm sure it was lovely when it was brand new.

As I turned to continue down the hall I was startled, jumping back from my own shadow. I gave a little laugh as it retreated at my feet. The lamp. There was a lamp dangling from the ceiling behind me, but I didn't notice it. There was plenty of light, my camera was still in my pouch, I wasn't using it because the light. I sniffled. Damn, I just… I'm here for a reason. I don't think I'm making much progress. Where am I? Did I just… what?

"Fuck." I looked around when I said it. No lunatics came out of the woodwork to beat me down, there was no one around. And it was quiet.

I folded my arms behind my back and straightened up a bit. Jesus, I can't… I can't remember it being so silent. Where am I? Am I asleep, in the asylum? Something's not right here. I fingered the belt around my waist, then raised a hand to run it through my hair. I pulled my hand away and stared at the numerous loose strands that had come out.

It's not good to stop.

A few crushed chairs lined the wall, a rusted heater on one side, and collapsed cardboard boxes had dissolved, had become one with the decayed carpet. The door on my left is locked. I move to the one on my right just past the gurney and find it open. There's a bed with a rumpled sheet over it, a tattered pillow on the floor and….

A computer chair.

In the far corner. A computer chair and a wooden coat rack. I approach the corner cautiously and pick up the chair, but it's cracked and no use to anyone. I pushed the coat rack along the wall, the wheels spun smoothly under it. Both items looked new, modern. They had hardly been coated in dust swirling about my face.

I return to the hall and make my way to the end of the corridor. The carpet under foot comes loose as I step, as if it's no longer carpet but has become some sort of fuzzy fungi. The remaining doors are boarded up, but my sights have set now on a bed frame propped before a set of double doors. They don't match the corroded and dying membrane of the amber and crème walls. I couldn't believe it, but—

I sprang back when a large shadow streaked over mine. That's what startled me. I jumped in midair and dropped beside the wall, cowering down and shuffling backwards behind a rusted heater. My heart ached in my chest it was pounding so hard. That wasn't fair!

Tears stung my eyes. Bitterly, I decided this was fair enough. I was shocked, but not harmed. Not lasting. I saw no one, didn't even hear them. Then I chuckled. I must've terrified _them_, scratching at the door like that. I could see the door open now, across from the gurney and the pictures of ponies. Ponies.

I wanted to laugh but I wanted to cry more. I did both, curled down by the wall and sobbed into my dusty knees. Jesus, I hope he doesn't come back and kill me. I'll just explain, I'll explain to him if he's a staff member that doesn't freak out, that I'm not insane. Insane men say that all the time, I know, but I'm as sane as it gets around here.

I can't stop laughing. And what's worse, I'm sobbing into my knees. I can't seem to get myself under control, and it makes it worse. I should get moving. But… just a bit longer. I'm in no state to move, and a laughing, crying man wandering the halls is sure to draw attention. Holy shit, I'm just glad he didn't run up behind me. I need to be more careful. Careful. I'm coughing and sputtering as I wheeze, the irony splints the hackles in my throat. I need some sort of reminder to be 'careful' in this place? I should write that down somewhere. Maybe I did.

I'm not under any inch of control when I'm back on my feet, slipping by the ugly amber-orange wall to the open door. I focus on the color, it's half amber-orange, and crème, I think. I rub the wetness from my eyes as I poke my head around the doorframe.

"Hello?" I ask. I take that the room is empty, or someone would have run off by now. Maniacal laughter would either get me shot, or scare off all the somewhat dangerous people. But, it was the not so dangerous people that didn't seem to care about me. That Cannibal, he was dangerous.

The room was dark and cramped, enough light from the hall slipped over my shoulder that I could view its contents. It had one bed with a sheet over it. A sink was on the opposite wall, and across from the door was a small tray, with a penlight on it.

I debated over this. I needed the battery, but it didn't feel right taking something that someone could be using. In this place, it could mean their death.

I went through the pouches on my belt, thinking of leaving a half dead battery. But that was stupid, where did that though fly out from? I reread the note concerning my status as a… committed. The note felt dulled now, it was losing its fire in me. It only served as a reminder that Lisa Park was out there, and Jeremy Blaire hated my guts all the same. I remembered, he hated me so much. Hated me enough to kill me, or make me disappear. He couldn't decide which was worse. It caused a shudder to run through my lips, and I let out a slow breath. Deflate my lungs. I do remember that, of all things. How vivid and raw his anger was, how bitter his amusement held, laced by sinister words and conscientious threats. Like bits of ice rubbing glass in a wound. He loved the sound of his voice.

It felt good. That somehow I was defying his projected fate over my life, without him realizing it. He could be on some distant beach with a good hard drink, enjoying the sunset oblivious to what was actually happening here. But he thought I was dead when really, I wasn't. Not by much.

The back pouch had a heavy item, and I took it out to recall what it was I had lifted. A can of soup. Portable microwave fodder, but good cold. A cold can of soup couldn't have the same value as a battery in a flashlight. I tried the penlight, it worked. I took the battery, and left the soup.

When I turned back to the hall I made certain that there was no one outside, watching. It could have been surviving security, or just another doctor terrified of a patient lurking around. I didn't need to find out. I just hope they left the penlight because they didn't need it.

One of the two doors at the corridors end was not barred by the bed, and the unhindered door was opened enough I could pick out the warning calls. The alarms. I dither, seeking out softer tones that could've been concealed over the calamity. Not on the other side of the door, not through the slit windows in the blue door. I shuffled forward, carpet ripping under my toes as I brush the door open.

The walls and floor are mostly clean, vibrant in the flashing bulb. It's sudden intrusion caused me to wince, hold my brow as I stepped through and shut the door at my backside. To my side are tall glassed in cabinets with frigid air seeping through the cracks. I tremble and move away, further examining the sharp angles of the room over. It was a medical ward. My eyes roam across white cupboards fixed along the high wall, all the way across the room. So many cabinets with glassed in fronts, bottles and bags visible through the fronts. Beneath them are stainless steel and granite countertops. And drawers, steel drawers, in every nook and cranny of the space beneath the countertops. Everything is shiny, and reflects the warming light of the strobe overhead. Directly across from me are analysis tanks, with glassed in fronts and electron microscopes. I have never seen this stuff but on the medical channel. It was all here, in this broken and worn husk of Mount Massive.

Research.

Cellular and capillary function.

I reinforce my grip on the camera as I stagger across the polished floor. Already, a soft layer of dust is spreading under my cold feet. I lean on the nearest counter as I focus. Morphogenic research. I was a software consultant, I debugged and rewrote the programming. Yeah. I saw the electrical part of the research, the unethical portion. But what was THIS? What else could they possibly do to the patients? What had they been looking for?

I cursed as I jerked my arm away, and managed to knock over a cold cup of coffee. The gooey substance ran in a thin, thick and black puddle across the stainless steel counter top. I reached across the shimmering top and picked up the files stacked there, before they could be ruined. A few spare jars were left out, along with a jug of clear fluid and a box of staples. I set the files aside and put my hand back to my scalp. Swarms of membrane overlapped and spread, ends ruptured and twisting. I held my breath as it worked into the back of my mind, digging through the folds of my brain.

Psychochemical research. Some sort of biology programming. I thought I heard someone say it was cancer theories. I couldn't remember who. That Murkoff was looking for ways to reprogramming the schematic structure of certain cells. Scripting human cells, like I would run script through a computers interface. Rewriting manually to achieve the desired result. Force it to work for me, the way I needed it.

Trying to dredge it up brought back the humming. Low tremors worked up my spine and out my fingertips. I didn't like the feel. I've never been shot with a Taser, but it must've been close. I couldn't stop shaking.

I flipped through some of the files I'd picked up. It'd help distract me. Keep the twine tightening in my skull from snapping. There was one of Wernicke's excerpts on German folklore. I blinked when I came across a patient status form. I didn't register what I was reading halfway through, and I had to go back and reabsorb the report.

_MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS _

_PROJECT WALRIDER _

_Mount Massive CO _

_Case Number: 209 _

_Patient: FRANK ANTONIO MANERA _

_Consultation Dated: 2012.08.29 _

_Initial Date of Patient Counsult: 2010.11.01 _

_Patient Age: 36 _

_Gender: Male _

_Observing Physician: Dr. Carl Houston (DBNR)_

_THERAPY STATUS: _

_Minimal Morphogenic Engine activity, and only at extreme (stages 5 and 6) levels of hormone therapy. Dream states return repeatedly to images of isolation and betrayal. Zero lucid state._

_DIAGNOSTICS:_

_Heavy bronchial accumulation consistent with patient with histories of tobacco and marijuana. Exceptionally low REM activity._

_INTERVIEW NOTES: _

_At the time of this interview, Frank was down to 155 pounds, (from his admission weight of 228.) He was lethargic and largely non-responsive, exhibiting interest only in the hypnotherapy script pattern 9 (Wernicke), concerning drinking blood from the chest of sleeping men. He continues to refuse bathes or the attention of a barber outside of general anesthesia, stating, "If I cannot partake, I cannot share."_

_Recommend forced nutrition for Mr. Manera if we cannot find something he likes to eat._

_MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS PROJECT WALRIDER _

_Mount Massive CO_

What? I flipped through the files, until I found the German folklore document. Walrider. It was also known as the 'Alp' or 'Mara', or 'Schrat.' Demonic creature that torments sleepers, takes their breath and causes paralysis or asphyxiation. Drinks milk from the breasts of sleeping woman, and sometimes drinks blood from the nipples of sleeping men.

Is that what he thinks he's doing? Becoming the Walrider, or inheriting it? I don't think I understand. I don't think it would help if I did understand. There was no point to this. They introduced these dangerous concepts to a substantially disillusioned man, my god. What did they expect would happen?

Numbers. All for the machine. That's what he said, behind the glass. Machines. All machines. Mindless, plugging in numbers, poking test subjects. Curious but not reflecting. Devouring information, yet never sated.

I took pictures. I knew how to do it, might as well. It seemed to be helping. If not, it would explain something later. He was chasing me, and I might now understand why. But it too felt like a lie.

Frank. Frank Manera. The Cannibal.

Without Murkoff, he may never have given me a second glance. Like the other patients I stumble into, didn't care about my presence. But I hadn't seen anyone dressed in the same scrubs as I ways strung up in his kitchen.

When he looked into my eyes. Did he know? Was he able to see through my clothes into my skin, and see the bat?

No, he couldn't. Another obscure and broken thought my brain conjured up. But did I? I could have seen him before he went into the Engine. I couldn't remember, too much I couldn't account for. It all became a blur of black screens with green font, red words. Error. People shrieking, or sometimes they went with it. Calm, placid, eyes glazed, staring from one man in uniform to the next, brains muddled by drugs. Dead inside. Guns. Why did they need guns? Was it sometimes necessary to shoot a deranged and frightened human? Said it was for their protection. Ours. The men buried in labcoats and respirators. Looked like insects. Blank slates scratching words into white boxes on paper, filling out information one word at a time. Numbers in between the words.

I was leaning down, pressing my forehead to the frosty surface of the stainless steel countertop. My brow felt warm, flushed, from the excitement and scrimmage to pull back what I pushed away. They tried to take it all away, my memories. Myself. Me.

Had to take back what I could. Before I died, I wanted to know. I wanted to remember my sons faces, murmur their names. A piece of them. I didn't want to lose them too.

Countertop peninsulas jutted out from the main length of the countertop. I moved to the far side of the wall, passing near a stack of jars still coated in plastic sheeting. They were in boxes set upon a pallet, and the top of the plastic had been ripped out and a few jars taken from one of the cardboard boxes. I turn from them toward the gentle gleam of blue on computer screens, beneath the cupboards along the wall. There was a phone on the hook.

Communication was contained. So was the network. I remember this when I raise the phone to my left ear, my right hand still holds the camera. I try dialing numbers but the line hums busy, and the prerecorded voice from the time when phones were first invented (her voice came with the invention of phones), prompted me to hang up and try again. If I would like to make a call. It's the first female voice I've heard in… a month, maybe? When did I start work? I didn't even know WHAT month it was.

I gathered up the phone and receiver in one hand and flung it across the room. The cord snapped loose from the wall and it cut across my lower arm as the items took flight. I watched the plastic case shatter across polished floor, the black cover pulsed red under the strobe in the ceiling. The dull blue screens with the password access agitated my head. There were duel screens for the tower beside them, but I only needed one. If I gazed on them I could almost see static flicker at their edges, and maybe if I dazed at them longer, I saw too much more.

I turned my eyes down and typed in my identification number, and my password. The computer loaded, but came back with an error. It was the wrong password and entry code. I tried once more, a different ID and that persons password. The same error. I made the effort three more times before I gave up. One of them was wrong, the identification I used or the password. I knew I couldn't remember, but I thought I did. Just tried to prove myself wrong, erase the doubt. It reinforced it.

A locker stands beside a large protrusion of the wall. I open it only to find it empty, and settle to leave it. There's another door in the side of the room, but the lock holds firm and the little mesh window in its side reveals nothing. I turn through the short corridor, into the next connecting room and pause to listen at the harsh grating sound. I know it's the gas, I can see a clear window across the room filled with the brewing chemical. Above the window, dull monitors gleam with video feed from various areas. Medical rooms, like the one I just came through. Plastic corridors, murky long decrepit halls, and the entrance to a purge gate.

It's a control station, for the purge gates control station. For monitoring the doctors that came through. I moved across the room to the small outlet, the noise of hissing pipes growing louder. It unsettled me, though I can't be sure why. Some mental conditioning, due to my encounters with the thing. The mist? I could clearly identify there was no threat, yet my instincts insisted I should move or hide.

I pass by a desk stationed by the wall, with another computer and screen on top. Papers have been scattered across the floor When I stand before the purge controls, I stare through the glass into nothing. I don't see… the man. Was he in there still? How do I get him out?

On the terminal before me are scattered pages from folders, nothing to offer direction. Pictures of the staff, notices. A few of these terminals lined the wall behind them, for regulating the gas pressure or just to make the desk look important. A computer screen with a fractured and muddled screen had fallen sideways, it read a few errors messages but it was shattered beyond function. I press the manual override to open the gate doors, but it did nothing. It was like beating one of those toddler toys, the ones with the squeaky buttons. Except, it was just a dull thud, and the hiss rumbled without remorse.

He was dead. He had to be dead. I'm certain he's dead.

"Go away. This is my place." The voice startles me. It had growled dry and nasty, an octave above the pipes spewing chemicals. I jerked around searching the wall, the lockers lined up across from me. In the gloomy corner by a door squatted a small ball, of pale blue and dark slacks. A person.

Security uniform.

I began breathing hard, backing away and pushed up to the wall. I stared at him, but he didn't seem to have noticed me outside his demand. My heart was still thudding, and the twisting impressions in my eyes. Screens playing out white and grainy lines, and the people with guns. Why? Why did they need guns?! A sharp pain worked through my skull, pressing through my skin and cutting each vein. My face felt warm and I tasted salt. I had bitten my lip again.

Someone was muttering near my ear. As I hugged the camera near my side and lowered to my knees, I recognized the voice. That was MY voice. "Can't do this… Please."

"Shh!" he hissed. I was aware that he was trying to keep his voice low, barely above a whisper. "You're going to get me killed."

He doesn't want to fight you, my mind supplies. He wants to hide away. He doesn't want to run or fight, he wants to hide. Breathe. It's okay. It'll be okay.

I imagined it, or tried to, with Lisa's voice. Calming, always optimistic. She didn't always have the answers, but she always knew we could find them. There was always an answer somewhere, just have to find it. Work it out.

God, I hope she was real. I mean, I know she's real, I have the document. But I hope, I hope I am Waylon Park. It's fucked up, how can you not be sure who you are? Wasn't I writing notes before I found the file that supplied my wife's name? Or… was it the wrong Lisa? Who was I? I'm Waylon Park. I am Waylon Park. That's the truth, and no one can take it from me.

I need to get out of here. Once I'm out, just in the sun. It'll help, it'll help put things back into my head. I've been in the dark too long, staring at static, eating polluted thoughts. Recycled. No stimuli. I have to get out, I have to get out soon or I will go mad completely and I'll no longer be able to debate it. Mad men do't know they're mad, they can't question it. I know I'm not mad. I know I'm not. I'll get out, there's a way out.

"Gas," I murmur. "Do you—" I cut off when I looked up to the security, huddled in his corner across from mine. He wasn't paying attention. His shoulders and pants were splotched with blood, and red was stained under him. I decided it had to be his. "Sir?" I continued, voice low. "Where is the main gas valve?"

"Fuck off!" he snapped, and buried his face deeper into his arms. He never looked up. He just heard someone bumbling around, knocking into things. It could be a mistake to probe for his attention.

Quietly, I rose to my feet and crept by him to the next door. As the door clicked and opened, I gave him a last glimpse to assure he had not looked up.

Another corridor of plastic walls, the saran coating plaster of green and off white. Barrels lined the corridor across from the door, along with plastic boxes, and tall gas canisters with blue tops. The blue categorized the gas components. On the wall in front of me was a plate that read Gas Room, and indicated the hall to my left. The right was a dead end at a malfunctioning purge gate brewing with noxious limes, the bellowing fog tinted by the light within. I could not see the man inside. I wasn't sure if it was the same purge gate.

I pulled the door shut behind me, and it gave a hollow clatter as the steel snuggled into its frame. Sturdy and imposing. I released the cool handle and moved down the hall, bypassing a fire extinguisher left mounted to the wall opposite of the row of barrels.

The lamps of the furthest end of the corridor no longer worked, or the power somewhere was cut. Bright red strobes pulsed at the ceiling. I coughed at the strong scent of the chemical and kept hunched over, it smelt stronger than what I remembered of the purge gates. No one was left to monitor it, to adjust the chemical compounds that bubbled through the pipes. Something caused the substance to build pressure and cause the leak, but there was no specific culprit to the disaster.

Plastic shielding obstructed my path, the clear material revealed the halls of the natural building continued. There was a door to my right, opened part way and inviting. Too inviting. I listened to the distant howl of sirens, but couldn't pick out other sounds. I pushed the door open and stepped into a dark room. Mounted high on the wall across the room were monitors, each displaying the nanohazard symbol with the Project name. Project Walrider. From above, the pale red glow of the strobe flashed in intervals, highlighting the room a fraction at a time. The pulsing light flashed in unison with my heart beat, glinting with crimson detail off the polished floor, papers scatter on the floor, and a desk at the far side of the room. Red, translucent light. Pulsing. Beating. Without rest.

A set of eyes near the floor spooked me, before I recognized a tower gleaming in the gloom of the desk. I took a breath and let it out. The room was empty, save for me. The battery was getting low in the cameras enhancement, and I fumbled to change it out for the one I lifted from the flashlight.

I checked the walkie talkie on the desk, but it had already been relieved of its battery. I might have its battery now.

Behind the computer screens was a Plexiglas window unwounded, and revealing the larger chamber next door.

I gave the smaller room one more examine. Directly beside the door on my left was a stack of large boxes, filled with papers and computer components. I shut the top most box, and located the lockers down from the door on the right. There were two, but both were empty aside from a coffee mug and one shoe. Disappointed, I shut the door and tensed up. The saw. I am certain I heard the saw.

How is that possible? How did he find me here?

"_Wernicke excerpt. The Alp is known to drink the blood from the nipples of sleeping men._"

I crouched to the floor and shuffled forward, to the door that was set open. I gripped the cold steel by its side and pulled it back carefully. I raised the camera and used the night vision to identify my surroundings, though the lamps and strobes pulsed strong in the ceiling giving the area some shape. It was tricky to decode what was lingering in shadows, and what was there. Before the green tint flashed on I could only see blobs and vague patterns, any of which could have been the Cannibal. Frank Manera.

If I called his name, it might distract him. He seemed wholly obsessed with the Walrider fantasy. I wouldn't risk it. I can't make it worse in running. I need stealth. Stay quiet. One ideal had locked his focus, his goal. If I didn't make it out, my wife, my Lisa, will never have closure. Will never say goodbye to me. They will burn my body and hide away the disaster of my corpse in bone and ash. The crematorium that hid away Murkoff's secret's.

Mountains of mutilated corpses. All in the name of science, bodies hidden away from family, relatives. Sanitation. Called it… they called it sanitation.

Focus. Need to focus right now. Stay away from the oven, listen for the saw.

The hum from the sirens, the stereos in the walls throbbed in the back of my mind. Dull and somehow distant, but never near. I kept low to the ground scanning first the distant space managed between the metal walls of the room. It was an entire medical facility contained in this one area, the shelves and countertops built by the walls held tools of surgery. Or dissection. A table a little to my left was coated in dry blood, and great waves had fallen from the steel top to stain the floor. The blood was already dried and lost its sheen under the lamps along the walls, but the scent remains strong and overlays the dull taste of my cut lip.

With the zoom I can identify more tables lined up behind the gore coated top. They're bolted on a glistening metal stand, with a pipe running from the underside of the tables top into the mid base of the stand. I creep forward, but hesitate when the sound comes harsh. The clatter crashes over walls and overpowers the melody of the sirens rhythmic complaint. I focus on my hand pressed to the cold floor, inch my body into a squat and wait for the jagged screech to fade off. I strain to detect where it comes from, what scrape of shape his might be. There is no movement and the sound has fallen before I can second guess its origin. Before me is a wall sliced center of the room, with cupboards high above the floor and countertops lapped around its base. A few large jars sit on its surface filled with large shapes. Even scrutinizing the contents with the camera, I cannot decide what the murky contents are. Something flesh, something once human I know.

I'm drawn to light at the left side, toward lamps fixed beneath cabinets above the counters. It illuminates the contents of the jars set out to display arms, some section of organ, and heads. Heads swollen with the substance to preserve them, and Ping-Pong shape obstructions inflate from each eye sockets. A large mass has been shoved into the throat of each head, but as I draw near and my eyes remain fixed on their clay stares I realize it's not an obstruction, but their tongue hanging out.

I back away, and instead move beside the rows of tables. Each is an inclined surface with the edges slightly raised around them, and a sink at the far end opposite to where a tap curls over. To rinse away the evidence, to scrub away disease.

The whine comes softer this time, behind a wall or another room completely. I lean beside the pipe directed into the base of the metal stand of the table, and search the gloom drenched surface for the crevice it rises from. It was impossible to decide, and the noise faded quickly. I took a breath and licked at my chapped lips. He's not in this room, but he is too close. He could be just around the corner, waiting for his unsuspecting victim.

Another set of computers and towers were set up on the counter to my left. Not far from them on the same desk was another analysis tank, sample capsules left inside the glassed in front of the machine. I stood up and moved to the end of the room, where I came upon a new door left wide open.

The air within the room is warm, due to the database towers throughout the interior. Lights flicker up and across the dark plastic surfaces in numerous colors, most I note had gone to yellow and orange. I knew that the room itself would normally be kept frigid. But it, like all of the facility, had been abandoned. Its destruction along with the programs it managed, was eminent. The software motherboards was stacked before me, and to the walls left and right. The backside was bare, but for the dark gray shade from the heat maintained within. I walked through the room, examining the cables plugged into the back of the computers and reveled in some of the hot air gushed out of the components vents. Overhead, pipes not responsible for the life of the computer hissed. Pipes, I recalled. Cut through the room, to the main controls. The gas chamber.

I exited the room, shivering in the reminder of the unhospitable air of Mount Massive. It was mind boggling to reflect the room wasn't full of heaters or engines, but only the computer hardware. And all of what it was doing, was 'thinking.' Truly amazing.

It took a few seconds of thought to decide which way I should go next. I stepped by a tall cabinet with a glassed in front, its interior filled with vials, surgical tools such as pliers, and a hedge clippers. I pulled at the doors but they were locked. Even if I had a weapon, I doubt it would have helped. Still, I'd rather have one than not, just in case.

I stopped dead in my tracks when it squealed beside me. Or, close enough. I couldn't force my muscles to twitch as the whir died out, and came again before its motor had a chance to cool. I didn't hear him, only the weapon. Was it coming from inside the cabinet? No. It was in front of me, nearby. Too near. I was out in the open. A large pipe curved from the ceiling and branched out in other directions, across and one pipe extending to a wall I was now staring at. I moved close to a silver pipe braced to the floor and ceiling, but beyond it dangling from the ceiling was a sign. Gas chamber. There were two doors, one at the edge of the wall before me, and the one to my left as indicated by the sign overhead. Gas Room.

Deactivate the main valve. Too much pressure. Fix the purge gate. Free the man.

I was feeling the despair weigh on me, when the shrill issued from the doorway. Directly beside me. I bumped my cheek on the pipe as I spun away. Footsteps. I could hear his steps on the metal floor, growing louder as the whine of the blade calmed. I think I actually saw him, rising from dark vapor bellowing in the enhancement of the camera. Rising, taking shape, coalescing into something more manageable. A shape that was vaguely human, but not allowed.

God, oh god. He was in the hall. He was in the hall!

I paced back to the open doorway of the software room. I don't think he saw me.

"Come to me."

He saw me! He saw me! I shut the door and moved to the back of the room. Dead end! Why did I come in here? Oh no. No-no-no-NO! I was running around the software tower, sweating beads down my face and neck. No. Please, is he coming? Is he coming? I spun away from the door and stared at a locker, in the back corner of the room. No. That won't work. I'll be a sitting duck. I opened the locker and viewed its contents. Cables hung from the coat hangers hooked on the bar, at the bottom were boxes of plug ends and stripped wires.

I wedged myself among the cables and dragged the door shut and waited. My breath was too loud, amplified by the tight walls of my coffin. Bad idea. Stupid. I'm dead. I'm going to die. But I don't know that. Can't know that. I swallowed and covered my mouth with my free hand. The other hand kept the camera glued to my face so I could see through the tiny slits. Tiny.

A door opened. I could hear it over the rustle of the pipes overhead. We're both dead. Him and I. I'm sorry. I tried, I did. I just fuck up too much. I'm sorry. I'm so-so sorry. Please believe me, please. I closed my eyes when heard the footfalls. Heel on metal crackled over the walls. Closer and closer. He was coming straight for the locker wasn't he?

"I know you're here."

I wanted to move, bury myself behind the gray cables and plastic. Inhale the harsh shadows, choke on my blood. Anything to hide away. To preserve my body from the mutilation. I should… I should have written my name somewhere. Carved it into my skin, so no matter what, it can be read. I felt sick to my stomach. I'm gonna be sick. I'm going to be sick. He's getting closer.

"You can't hide."

He was right beside the locker. I could feel my hand quivering into the skin around my mouth, my fingernails dug into my cheeks. I'm sorry Lisa. I'm sorry baby, I tried. I got this far, it just… it wasn't meant to be. I'm sorry. It's not fair. God, it's not fair. I'm sorry, I'm sorry….

Over and over, in my head. How many different ways can I say, I am so sorry. Please. Please, someone forgive me. I don't want to die here.

I winced when the harsh wind of the blade skipped in its brace, and waited for the inevitable when he began tearing his way into the locker. Cut it in half like a magic trick. But the sounds moved away. Kept going, getting furthering, dying out. Hissing. The hissing from the pipes became louder, rubbing in my skull. I smelt smoke, but it could be my jumper. That was still sooty, and foul.

Blearily, I open my eyes and stare through the visor, slanted beside my eyes. I was terrified to move, though I could see beyond the thin slits. I couldn't see very well. The room was dominated by the sizzling through the pipes, the nonexistent twitters of the computers. But the Cannibal was not in sight.

I waited longer. Too long. I waited until my legs had become so stiff I could no longer feel my toes. I never wanted to leave the locker. It was hot and stuffy, and smelled of new plastic and burnt motherboards. But it had become the only safe place I knew of in the entire facility. I never wanted to leave.

In the end, I don't know how long I actually stayed in the locker before I fumbled with the latch to open the door. I was barely able to stand, in part from the blood pulsing through my brain and the odd scenes that played in my mind. My feet were stiff and sore, I nearly fell a few times as staggered toward the door that was left open. I pause just within the frame and carefully shuffle forward, searching for the sounds.

They came, but not in the area that I was within. They quickly fade under the rasping pipes, and I recall where it was I had in mind to be. Gas Room.

I don't know what was in the corridor that opened in front of me. From beneath the sign that indicated the corridor to the gas room, I peered through the doorframe to a partially lit hall with walls coated in the plastic wrap. The section of Mount Massive that had merged into Murkoff. Or was it the other way around?

The strobe flashed overhead, forcing me to put a hand over the camera to blot out some of the intensity as I stepped through the gloomy corridor. The sound of the saw and his sharp steps were absent, I took this as promising. He was somewhere, but not here. Gas spewed from the large pipe at the upper edge of the ceiling. I could follow it, let it guide me.

I slouched forward, low, and edge around the corner of the corridor. A sharp taste coated the back of my throat, from all of the chemical vapor floating about. My mouth was full of the bitter taste as I swallowed. I tried not to think about the other properties, the primary component used to remove or dissolve. The corridor ahead was empty. There was a path to the right after a few steps, and beyond that continued to another corner. In the visor, pale light fell across the floor. I wiped some of the sweat from my eyes, and rubbed some of the soreness away. I remained wary as I rubbed at my eyelids, fatigued by the consistent Boom-Boom of the strobe above as it glanced over the camera enhancement.

I missed the dusty halls and the moth chewed carpets. And even the muggy windows with the soft, natural light.

Footsteps caught the plastic walls, cut from the heel and lashing high before collapsing to the hard cold metal of the floor. I tensed, struggling not to turn back. Fighting the sour burn in my chest that urged me to shriek a sound, something desperate and primal that could come from the depths of the darkest jungle. The horrors of being torn apart and eaten, and still alive to think only of the pain. Blood filling your throat and washing away the harsh chemical scent.

"You can't hide."

I collapsed to my knee and hand before I had pushed myself up, moving around the corner. Quiet. Stay quiet. Get to the Gas Room. Fix this. Fix it right.

"Meat," he murmured. "Lonely flesh."

I was halfway to the Plexiglas doors when my mind registered what I was looking at. Clear doors, swirling gas. I couldn't get in! I had to go through a set of purge gates, to fix the purge gates. The paradox numbed my mind. How do I fix this? How do I fix it, if there's no solution? What do I do?

Tatters. I rotated in place staring up at the shredded ends of the plastic container. A work around. A work around!

"Come to me." His voice echoed in the corridor. The Cannibal believed I was corned, knew I would be trapped. He knew this place too well, had gotten careless. The saw whirled, its teeth flashing the light like jewels across its surface that managed a small ache to lumber through the back of my mind.

I turned my focus up, on my salvation. It was a climb but I could manage, there was no argument. I stuffed the camera strap in my teeth and turned to the metal container, the purge gate. The plastic was folded down over the edge, and a plank of wood visible above its side. I took the edge and hoisted myself up a few feet and dropped back, a sharp ache working through my shoulder.

God no. Oh, god no! My feet kicked at the plastic surface and I pulled, daggering my fingernails into the edge of the board. No! I've fallen back to my fingertips and that goul, the butcher. That cannibal is right behind. No! NO!

It's a dream, my mind supplies. A bad, horrible nightmare. You'll wake up, and you'll be alive. You are not about to die.

But I smell blood and death. And I'm back in the kitchen, staring at a warm stove coated in gore. Behind the glass is my face, staring back at me with melting eyes. I taste something odd in the back of my throat. It's not the chemical, it has no descriptive flavor. Skulls splint and work, twisting with the white membrane in my mind. I'm going to die. The agony lasts a forever.

I hear the Cannibal shriek with glee, right in my ear. The saw shrieks as it lashes out, but the cry is painful. It's the sound of rage, and there are sparks. I can't see, because there's no light but occasional flare of the red bulb and I smell something burning.

My arms ache but I try to climb. I'm unharmed and the ache in my skull is fading. I want to look back and see, but I am afraid. I have to get away. Someone has to shut off the gas.

A hand wraps around my foot, and I immediately panic and kick my legs out. Even when I realize I'm not being dragged back down, but shoved up, I don't relent in my struggles. I nearly drop the camera in my excitement. It isn't until I hear the Cannibal's voice scream, "MINE! You are mine!" That I brace my leg and let whoever it is shove me up enough that I can haul my legs up the remained of the side.

There's a hot, burning lamp to the side of the small compartment. I don't pause, don't blink as I scramble through the work cuvee. The walls of the asylum are exposed on either side, and above the upper floor/ceiling has cracked and the boards are visible through the plaster. The top of the purge gate, the container, is covered with plywood. This makes crossing more tolerable. At my back I hear the heightened shriek of the saw, but sound is drowned out by an agonized howl. I never look back. I leave the sounds behind.

The plywood platforms comes to an end, and I'm left to stare down on a plastic cover sealing off the next channel of the corridor. It wasn't quite sealed, however. The edge along where the plywood rests has a long tear, the edges frayed but not rotted. I thought over the medical room, and the blood soaked tools left on the steel table.

If I had any of those tools, I wouldn't be bothered with doors or keys. I could cut out all the windows I needed. Get out of here, without fearing if my next endeavor would be a suicide. But my head… pulsed, and I knew what came with it. The Static. The vents. The demon the Cannibal believed in. The patients did enough damage on their own. I didn't need to help them.

I flipped the plastic tear over, and lowered myself down onto the metal floor. The room was small, walls saran wrapped. I spun in place seeing the Plexiglas doors dense with chemical, then the door labeled honestly Gas Room. I pressed my shoulder to the door and eased it open, expecting someone to be here. I don't know why. As I stepped in, I noted blood streaks on the floor. Quite a bit of blood, but old.

The back of the room was dominated by large cylinders, coated in copper insulate. Between the large tanks was a door, between the next two was the end of a pipe slinking across the wall with a turn wheel attached to its middle. To the side of the wall was a table cart with a walkie talkie and a spare computer monitor perched atop it. The wall to my right was glassed in and viewed the twisting contents of the purge gate. Purge gates were not very large, but the gas within was so dense I couldn't see the floor or backside. I shut the door behind me, and viewed computer terminals mounted to the wall on my left.

I took the camera from my teeth and stuffed it in a pouch, as I gave the screens careful attention. All of it, the words, numbers terminology, all of it was gibberish to me. I wasn't sure how to fix this, how to adjust the purge gates pressure. The wall with the glassed in front had a countertop before it, with the dark control boxes for the gauge pressure and chemical levels. Some papers were scattered out, and a few of those pages I went through but none of it seemed relevant.

One note highlighted the crucial importance of the purge gates to Project Walrider. The advance research division. Those psychos. I remember, they almost Worshipped the purge gates. There was a notice, not to… not to listen to the patients. I don't remember what came first, I didn't know that much about research. Were the purge gates always around? I decided their purpose was known, but I couldn't recall the first time I used one. Let alone the last.

Another notice cautioned that the network of pipes that connected each purge gate could malfunction if the gas wasn't regulated. It recommended relieving the pressure by opening the main junction valve fully, then shutting it off. A schematic of the main valve was present, and slight variations were present but I did recognize it. I think.

I spun to the pipe that curved down from the edge of the ceiling, with the turn wheel at its front. A warning printed behind the Valve warned not to turn it.

If I spun the valve and flooded this whole place with chemical, we just might all die. But that wasn't the worst outcome. It should destroy or disable the shade. I was willing to risk it. I braced my heels to the cold floor and took a deep breath. Right tighty, left loosy. The valve gave a soft squeak as the wheel revolved, then the soft coo as gas rushed out of the pressurized channel. I turned back as the glass within the purge gate began to dissipate immediately.

My thoughts traveled back. Traveled to the desperate pleas of the man behind glass, choking, dying. I don't even know if he was a patient, or a doctor, or who he was. I just thought of him as the dying man in the purge gate. And I failed him.

* * *

**Weylon is such a downer.**

**Thank you for reading.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Intermediary Prologue**

After five minutes, or what I imagined seemed much longer so it must have been five minutes, I took the handle and resealed the channel as instructed. This left a limited amount of time to return, to get through the purge gates, to arrive on my destination. Wherever that had gone. I stood staring at the label behind the turn wheel Do Not Turn Valve.

It came back easier this time. I felt along the belt, the pockets that contained my whole worldly possessions, and my tether to my goals. Manifested and tied about my waist, like a red thread about my finger guiding me back. Back to my life, my factual world, and my wife. My family. Out there. They were out there somewhere and I would find them.

Mentally, I shrugged off a terrible fact, a fact I didn't want to address as it was as painful as forgetting the names of my son. My boys.

Just… focus on staying alive.

I was curious of the door at the back of the room, between the copper insulated tanks. The door was secure, but I took a moment to ponder a mental map. This only frustrated and upset me. I was trying to think over the blood smeared and dried to the floor at the doorway. Did someone leave, or did someone go through the locked door? Did it lead to the other side of the purge gate? But I couldn't recall where that room was, or what it had been like. Static swirled, consuming the memories like a virus.

I took the walkie talkie off the table cart and found a battery inside the case, and took that. The battery of current was heavy on power, but an inspection of my pouch revealed the new battery as the only one left. I would be all right. I could get through. I'm not certain where I would go, but I had to get away from this room. The medical wing. Autopsy room. Autopsies.

The clear doors of the purge chamber swept open, filling the small room I stood in with the strong scent of chemicals. I was not comfortable with setting foot inside, the death rattles of a man suddenly the clearest sound in my head. I did not want to be locked inside, choking, gasping for air while each breath I took stole the light from my eyes. The inside of the chamber was lined with shimmering foil, its floor a grate to channel the gas out. Along the edge of the upper wall were two pressurized pumps with pin point nozzles, and on the left side extended the clear Plexi of the Gas Room.

I put the camera in its pouch and examined the tear above, the opening I has slipped down. IF equations. That's what I was thinking. If the statement is True, then a change occurs. If the equation is False, nothing is changed. It stays the same.

I caught the edge of the wood platform and felt it slip at my fingertips, but I held on. When I tried to pull myself up the pain burned in the shoulders of my overtaxed muscles. I shimmied closer to the doorway of the gate and put my foot to the frame. It took a few tries, my foot kept slipping but in the end I was able to lift up by my foot until I could get my elbows over the plastic covering. It was thick and held my weight, as I crawled the rest of the way over and wheezed over the dusty work materials. Okay. That was hard, but I knew how to do it now. I had a chance. I had a better chance now.

The other side of the gate was silent. The doors rasped shut automatically when my movement was no longer detected, but they still made a lot of noise. I sat over the ragged wound in the containment corridor and stared on the pulsing red light accenting the fresh gleam of blood on the floor below. The lamp propped on the work space and plywood beside me cast no light within the floor below, and I didn't risk adjusting the light to save the batteries in the camera.

I press my hand to the edge of the plastic cover and ease myself down. The thick vapor of copper soaked into my lungs, overlapping the sharp prick of chemicals that hung on the air. Recollections of glass rooms, a dark place, slithered through my thoughts, conjuring up the dull throb in my skull; large transparent wings leapt forth from my eye sockets and folded across the sterile walls stained and dripping.

There was so much blood. I use the enhanced vision in the camera and moved to the end of the short corridor. The large dark stains streak around the left corner on the left, splattered here and there are the overlapping patterns of footprints, slick and glistening under the pulsing light. A struggle, a pursuit, a retreat. I dwelled on the evidence and decided I had to help someone, clean their feet somehow. It took some eternal focus to get it through me that the owner of the footprints was most likely dead, or dying, by what was displayed here. What's more, whenever I did try to help someone bad things always seemed to follow. I don't know why, it was fate. I had to get someplace, get in contact with someone that could fix this.

My hand found the pack on my belt, the one with the notebook. I looked away from the ugly trail and set my hand to the wall, feeling first that my side was shielded. Right. The path that opened on my right seemed safest. I listened though and moved slowly, despite my sharp inclination to flee for safer havens. The corridor took a left and the harsh strobe blazed into the passive green of the visor. I blinked hard and edged the camera off from my face, the spots faded from my eyes. The wall beside me was crammed with stacks of lumber and boxes, the whole assemble tarped; further along the opposite side of the corridor sat tall canisters. The erratic patterns of light stretched and blurred solid shapes in shadows; I couldn't trust that the abandoned supplies were indeed immobile sentinels or if this place permitted them a kind of unnatural animation. Did stacks of canisters and shelves lurk and bide their time, waiting for my distraction in none threats? They whispered things to the patients, I know they did.

I held the camera to my chest as I slipped down behind a pallet. The distant call of sirens resonated in the hall and through my chest; its job to drown out the howls and sobs of broken men, while the world fell apart around me. I keep low and shuffle partway under the lamp midway within the corridor, paused to listen, discerned no audible threat, and continued. The plastic coated walls ended, there was only a wall to my left with an impassible nanohazard door. The sharp flash of a large tank surfaced in the visor, startling me enough that I jerked back into the doorway with an involuntary yelp. I calmed myself quickly. Someone would be listening, there was always someone lurking.

But I was beginning to feel an ache in my gut, and the pain in my head refused to subside. It's hard to focus and manage my ragged breathing. I should be looking for something, there had to be aspirin in a cabinet or desk somewhere; coughs drops, cough drops would help

I was on the other side of the dark open room, standing in a doorway I must have missed, or forgotten during the previous search. The tables with the sink ends stood out in the visor as I proceeded, edging along the wall towards the far side of the room where some light managed to thrive. It felt familiar to come this way, I had come this way before I knew. I moved beside the analysis tank and peered into the glassed in side, clear vials sat in rows awaiting samples or… something else.

Machines.

I shuddered and continued, passing the open door and entered the software room. I knew where I was more or less, but I wasn't certain where to go to get out of here. As I continued by the cabinet with the glassed in front, I was cautious to a new sound in company with the sirens. It was a muddled thudding I had mistaken for blood rushing in my ears. It wasn't near, which strengthened my resolve, but it was present nonetheless, and that meant danger.

I slipped toward the friendly glow of computers, and the section of wall that cut through the side of the room. Some sort of electron microscope was fixed beside the wall, along with industrial shelves filled with components and wires, as with bottles of unknown contents – medical supplies, alcohol, ether. The sound became clear and audible as I moved towards two doors set adjacent in the wall. I recognized them. One led to the Gas Room! The sign overhead indicated as much. I had looked at it before…. Before I hid in a locker!

The door set before me was open, harsh light from the corridor carved over plastic coated walls; Mount Massive's naturally eroded surface, concealed in a sheen of sterile and translucent substance like membrane. Like a cancerous organ being suffocating by an organism, and the disease infesting it, digesting it. Or something else, something more morbid and cruel. Files about miscarriages, and those images of fetal growths warped in my eyes. Focus. Focus, don't lose it now. I coughed into my foul smelling palm, but the sound was like an anguished moan as the air coiled in my chest.

On the floor at my toes, the fresh black streak from the corridor dragged out from the left and continued, into the unexplored hall before me. And the sounds continued. I know those sounds.

I take a sharp breath and move forward. The blood quivered as the light trailed over its thick and thin marks. I followed the footprints and pause when I reach an edge in the corridor, the clamor almost upon me. The hall was intersected by another corridor, to my left across the hall was a door, shut. With fresh light draped over me I lower the camera. I cringe at the noise, the evident clatter of metal abused by rage, and something more. A distance along the wall and directly beneath the light, awaited a high stack of pallets, tarped. I shuffled close to the wall until I was beside them, and peered along the uneven side to view the bleak depths of the corridor.

The sound was thunderous, hammering across the interior corridor in time with each pulse of my brain. I couldn't see far, even with the zoom of the camera. I moved under the light as I inched by the pallets, and came to the rapid conclusion that this was a mistake. The crashing violence against the steel door ceased abruptly, and was replaced by the casual stride of footsteps. I remained crouched for far too long, mesmerized and panic-stricken by the figure that crept into the range of the dim halo.

"I know your close." The harsh whine of the blade hummed, as the master bided his time, drew closer. "You," he rasped. "I want you."

I nearly choked on my tongue as I turned away and raced out of that corridor. I'm frantic dashing across the room searching for a safe spot or a way out of this room, before I understand that I have no idea where I am supposed to go now. What was a safe place in Mount Massive?

Even with the cameras enhancing vision and a fluorescent light beaming down from above a glassed in window, I very narrowly avoid running face first into a swinging door. Complete circle. I've gone in a complete circle! Think. Where have I not checked? How do I fix this? I could hear the Cannibals leisurely pursuit, his greasy feet slapping against the blood soaked floor. He knew I was lost, clawing at the dark, suffocating and dying. How did I escape? Where was the window?

I felt along a cold metal wall. To my right the camera reveals the wall that cut through the room, the industrial shelves braced to it were loaded with boxes and plastic tubs. This way, go this way. I picked up the pace when a door more or less oozed out from the featureless surface of the wall it was plastered to, the merciless smolder of the strobe flashed within. Somewhere behind me, He hastened his pace. Stumbling, I dashed through the gaping doorway.

It was the room I had entered from, a path that did not circle around. The strobe light swelled in stark reds across the ceiling, the desk huddled at the side, and two lockers across from me – worthless. But there was a second door that led in, but also connected to out. Out to where? Corridor! Light!

I swung back to the doorframe as the rasp of the saw edged closer, filling the room with its cold hunger. I caught cold steel in my hand and braced my shoulder against it. I don't think the Cannibal expected me to be on the other side of the door, or he didn't see me in a blessed cloak of shadow. I shoved off my toes and heaved under the collision when the full weight of muscle impacted the door panel. The force of jamming the door into its frame stunned me, more than crashing into my pursuer. I stagger sideways, catching myself before I could fall. I didn't dawdle and wait for hunger to recover; I pivoted and all but threw my body through the door cracks.

A corridor! Plastic walls, light. I tucked the camera into its pouch as I swung around the collection barrels nestled close by the wall. In my haste I nearly bypassed the door near the corridors end, my hand latched onto the doorknob and pulled me back. I wretched the door handle, but it wouldn't budge. Locked! I didn't have the time to debate over why, or how. The hard footfalls of my pursuer buckled under the shrill wail of his weapon. He was in a mad dash shrieking of meat, of _having_ me. I stared at his red torso, the dust of dried fluids accenting his gaunt skin with thin lines; my eyes watered as I clawed at the door handle, I began kicking the doorframe beneath knob with my knee.

"_God, please! Open! Someone save me! Is Anyone there? Anyone!_"

But no one came. There was only corpses, abandoned supplies, and plastic walls; all crammed into my coffin.

I tore away from the door, casting short glances over my shoulder as the Cannibal made the last few feet with his long strides. My feet moved faster, and I was ducking under the airy hiss of the saw as he slung it out for me. The Cannibal's ratty voice cackled, his lips tore back over black teeth. I couldn't stop myself from leaping aside in a jagged serpentine. The glossy windows of the purge gate flew into my peripheral, and I braced for the agonizing pain of being crushed between glass and steel. My body struck air and I hit the metal grate of the floor hard, and kept going. I scrambled away from the doorway as the porous shielding sighed shut and for a long agonizing second there was silence; aside from the strained clipped of my breathing, amplified within the glittering walls.

A death trap. Humane sanitation. These words mingled with my thoughts as I scrambled back from the door and into the farthest corner. I curled down between the hard foil walls, my throat raw and scratching for more air but I refuse its demands. The bloated hydraulic pumps along the rooms upper corners spew foul chemical, and I am compelled to hold my breath. I think about the man dying in the other room, suffocating on his blood, I think about the man that had his face crushed into the window. I think about dying, about being cornered and defenseless, and being torn apart. About my body sliced to pieces, chunks of me floating in a pot. I feel warmth and wet seeping through my knees, and barely realize my fingernails are digging through the thin material of my jumper. I can't will my hands to let go, nor can I lower my eyes from the doors in front of me.

I don't register the change in temperature immediately, or the thin air caressing the nape of my neck. There's nothing in my head but the image of the ravenous hunter, plastered to the other side of the Plexiglas shielding. I am still alive, but my brain can't process this irrational solution.

The Cannibal, did he have a name? He wasn't naked. He wore briefs. Stained, blood coated, filthy briefs. He gazed through at me, I know he can see me, and paws at the Plexiglas with his open palm. His eyes are glossed with that same longing and hunger that I had first witnessed in him, someplace. To try and remember brought about the scent of scorched computer components and the spiraling white fetus growths. I scoot aside and back, following the dull air of old plaster and suffocating decay. When I was beyond the doorway of the gate, the clear doors snapped shut and the panel on the side reverted from a green open padlock, to a red lock.

I was safe.

Something soft scraped over my heel as I slid backwards, on my knees. I tumble sideways onto my hip and clawed at my feet, shrieking until I rammed into the low panel wall with my head and dropped. The shadows wound at my ugly jumper and I felt an itching compulsion to remove them; scratch at my arms and legs until my skin peeled back. It took a long time before I let myself believe that it had been the dead guard, the cold stiff body lying at my feet, and that was what I had bumped. I lay there staring down at the corpse, mind suddenly devoid of thought or reflection. I should have known where I am, yet I couldn't place it. If I had the camera out….

The camera wasn't in the pouch where I had stuffed it. Sudden terror didn't constrict me, as I expected, though I had no idea where I might've dropped the camera – in the corridor, was it left in the now locked purge chamber? My mind only supplied that I needed to find it, regardless of complication.

I sat up and pawed around at the door and crawled closer to the corpse. The camera had fallen beside the body; I raised it up and sat for a short while examining my surroundings. Plastic, murky walls. Torn, blood splattered. I could make out the chapped and broken walls beyond, hallways. I came through here. It was… a dead end. My thoughts ground along, linking each comprehensive thought to the next. Little by little the fog cleared, and I remembered the man.

It was eerily quiet now, the corridors. Void of the whisper of the chemical in the pipes. What I could dreg from my one trip through, there was a lot of hissing and fear. I feared the sound. I feared what was no longer contained in these corridors. I would not meet it here, I am sure. But… no, it had to be contained. It couldn't escape! It was quarantined!

I turned the corner in the corridor and passed the large tear in the plastic wall, stained by blood. Blood stained the floor, leading to a corpse around the next corner on my left. From somewhere deep in the walls, the sirens warned. No one was safe, and no one here had ever been safe. Illusions and lies. What could only survive within these walls….

I looked to the body, a few feet from the purge gate. I shut off the night vision, but reframe from lowering the camera as I move past the corpse. A body lay twisted on one side of the purge gates mesh floor, clothing specked with red and face blue, his lips are black and swollen. The doors startle me when they hiss open, but I don't move away. I debate joining the corpse, dying in that container where he found his conclusion. How long had he been dead? When did I fail him? When I couldn't… find my way? When… or?

The stress makes remembering painful. Instead, I shuffled into the chamber and let the doors shut at my back. I stare through the visor of the camera, at the man crumpled in the corner of the chamber. Mist fills the small room, and I begin to panic when it lasts longer than I suspect it should. But the doors before me grate open and suddenly there is light. So much light, so much.

I smell earth, wet pine needles – the sensation raw and overwhelming, but I'm afraid to stray too long and absorb the colors and textures. None of this can be natural. A breeze slips across my brow, and I know it's real. Not some foul draft discharged from cracked windows, but a breeze from outside. Harsh, welcoming, and free. I stand in the doorway rocked to my core. I can't move. I don't want to take a step in it and shatter the reality, this fantastic sensation curling through my body. It's beautiful. But, am I truly outside? Or is this another section of the asylum, filled with soil and betrayal? What is Murkoff truly capable of? I'll never know and I will always underestimate them.

Beyond the edges if the purge gate extends a high chain link fencing infused to brick, set to corral the cement steps; they are cold and moist. I wince at the sudden chill colliding with my bare feet, but smother the alien sensation as I take another step; each is like a shockwave through my heels, my feet have never been this cold before but it's invigorating. It's only when the doors whisper shut at my back, that I recall the body of the doomed man. Blearily, I cast my eyes back to impenetrable doors and the panel with its blunt red lock symbol. It's difficult to coerce further sympathy for the corpse, my attention was already drifting towards my surroundings, and what they might contain.

The cement steps continue down at a steep decline. I try to peer through the metal fence to what could lay beyond and take in my surroundings, but a thick haze hovers throughout the air. The scent of water and soil excites me, yet I can't explain why. I could still be trapped within plaster walls and plastic, but I can enjoy the small exhilaration that I may finally be out. I could have escaped! I was free!

Then cold realization courses through me. I need to call for help. I had to find… I had to find the radio.

Heart heavy and mind plagued, I turn the corner in the fence, and travel down more steps. The steps go on and on, down and down. The process becomes monotonous, just steps and steps, turn, spiraling into gray patterns swirling through the thick smog. And at the very pit an ember burns, hot and full of life. I smell the bodies cook, muscle scorched and flesh blistering, charred bone crawling through cremation; ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

The thick clouds retreat into something fine, and cool. I cannot see far through the haze that clings to the surface of the metal lattices at my sides, and I can't make out the course of the path that has spilled out at my toes. The odor of smoke becomes a hot smolder in my memories, as I stand at the edge of the steps. I inhale the overpowering scent of greasy dirt, and damp grass. I believe the fog has swallowed up the edges of the fence, and it would devour me as well if I hadn't taken care to inspect the ancient metal. The fence opened up to someplace large, a yard, maybe the world. The air is steady and tranquil, almost stagnant. Somehow, it fills like the ill drafts from within the asylum, or maybe that air now haunted me. Outdoor air can't harm, I'm certain, but I remain cautious.

I'm standing on crispy mud that was scraped onto the first few steps. I shift my footing and, with a brief hesitance, lift the camera. The night enhancer flashes in the visor; the haze too bright and the fog thick. I can't estimate what time of the day it is. My only asset is the zoom, and I have only begun to master that.

I lower the camera and scan the distant gloom, squinting. I see nothing, aside from a barrier that obscures the path directly to my left. It's some solid and imposing stature of brick climbing higher than the camera can zoom. There are lights smoldering in the distance; twin suns spiraling through the galaxies, hazy and forever away. Anything not directly around me is troublesome to see, but I can make out the thin dark interlocking threads of fences. The weed work has wound thickly across the metal links, and the suns bright rays are nearly smothered. I would have died to the smothering moments before, but the gentle warmth of the false sun melted me. Gave a direction. It was open. I wasn't confined to halls or plastic boxes.

There remained only the matter of reaching the light. The trial of traveling millions of miles through this nonexistent void, and demand the suns authenticity.

I press my foot to the moist earth and pause, expecting the ground to dissolve and send me spiraling into the dark depths. The earth holds my weight for a time and does not quiver. I trust my other foot and stand in the scraggily grass, staring into the thick vapor of exiled clouds. Strange noises chatter from the distance—low hoots, sometimes a shriek tumbles clumsily, but they are beyond the dense curtain.

My legs shake as I moved across the soil. Sodden dirt sticks between my toes, clumping and peeling away with each step. I manage five steps before I drop to my knees and stare at the soil. The camera is gripped between my hands so tightly, I could easily twist it in half. Gently, I set it aside, and then push my hands through the meager shouts of graying plants. I feel sharp, gummy rocks under my palms, the strong scent of roots stung my nostrils as I take a breath. I sneeze once, and it felt good. I dig my fingers through the clay earth and draw back a wad of roots and mud. It all breaks apart in palms.

So good. It felt amazing. As the soil falls, it leaves behind a gritty layer coating my skin. I rub my palms together and stare up into the sky to revel in the soft glimmer of suns suggestion, somewhere beyond brick or hill. Far away, but gorgeous and perpetual. The light is so bright it burns my eyes, I blink away the tears and continue to gaze. I can't look away. I never want to look away.

But all at once, it's too much. I surrender. My head droops, and I rub the dampness at my eyes with a dusty wrist. After a short time, I push myself to my feet and listen to the silence. The almost silence. A crackle reaches my ears, a cry, it could be a person or some animal. I glance off towards trees, bare of all but a few straggler leaves. The odd bent shapes of brush and other foliage stabs through the fog, enhanced by the juicy gleam of moisture. My toes knead at the mud as I ponder.

Find the Prison Block? The Prison Block would have a radio, call for help. I don't know if I could find it, or if I wanted to. Somehow I had escaped Mount Massive. I had to get away, find a road, a long road that led to places. Civilization. I could follow that, try and flag down a car. Someone might help me, if they didn't shoot me first. But first I had to get away from these grounds. Things would begin to make sense with each mile I gained. I was not safe here. The haze is cover for dangers prowling.

I nearly walked off, before the emptiness in my hands anchored my feet. I had set the camera down. It needed a string or something, I couldn't keep on doing this. I picked it up, checked that it was still recording, and began to move. Slowly at first, testing the water so to say. The fog yielded to my shape with little resistance, I imagined the dark murky swirls of vapor embracing my thin shoulders and holding me tight.

Walking across the soil in short calculated steps was even stranger. It had been AGES since I had ventured outside barefoot, not since I was a small boy. There were days when I had walked down a sidewalk or somewhere, a short distance to retrieve something or other. I couldn't make heads or tails what, and settled that there was a mailbox at the end of a driveway and I sometimes I couldn't find my slippers because someone had hidden them. A newspaper. Early morning, I'd walk to the short driveway and get the newspaper. Or I'd stand out in the short, soft grass and play catch or football, some sport that required a minimum of two people.

A heart wrenching thought cut through me. I didn't know how old my boys were. Couldn't remember when last I saw them, what I said when it was goodbye. What did I remember of them? They were… young, yes. Very young. They depended on me, and I… I…

Oh god.

I stood before a gate left ajar in the fog. The suggestion of X-rays nibbled along my peripheral, I tried to ignore it, but the coil of pain had punctured the base of my skull and worked its way through the side of my skull. I tilt my head, hoping to alleviate the sharp pricks. I had my hand on the handle of the gate and gently, pulled the door back through the rough soil. The fence stretching from the sides into the fog, was reinforced by a cement base. The branches of parched brush caught at the thin material of the scrubs as I stepped through.

The tall structure of the brick building punched through the fog on the right, and along its side I could define the glimmer of windows trapped behind thick bars. A series of steps crawled from the low base of that building and sank beneath the gray soil that spread to the furthest edges of my vision. A light came from lamps stationed along the buildings outer walls, gleaming across dark red brick. It helped my vision pick out the details of the huge canisters, larger than me, propped before the compromised wood and glass doors. I felt I recognized these doors, or had seen some manifestation of them prior.

My curiosity was soon shattered by a cruel sound, a sound I knew too well. I fell back as I stumbled away, the camera clasped in my hands as my eyes needled desperately at the gloom, I searched the windows, the doors; from where the strained shrill sliced from. The light within pulsed, the accumulation of deep shadows within the building looked alive and vengeful, envious of my escape. Where was HE?

"No! NO!" The voice clawed on the air, catching my ears as I cowered down in the dry branches and weeds. I held the camera trying to use the enhancement to cut the glare, but it only made vision worse. "You were Mine!" A window high above. He couldn't survive the fall, and if he did he would be in no capacity to hunt me. Just to be certain, my hand curled around a rock beside my knee. Never again. "MINE! MINE!" His voice crashed through the fog, and the mist of a day with no name. I only see a flicker in the darkest pit of a window, and then he ducks out of my thoughts as effortlessly as he had asserted himself.

"_A scream. Is it him, the cannibal? Could be pleasure or pain, I won't guess. I'm not sure he'd even know. His voice sounds like... something I wanted while watching the Engine. Its only message is hunger, to crush and consume. I'm going to try to forget it, Lisa. If I get out of here, I'm going to come back to you._"

I shake in the damp grass at the base of a tree gazing up, waiting for the grind of that blade, to see his blood soaked face and the far gone glaze in his eyes. But I never see Him. I know it's him, I know it must be. But he is gone. Lost in a world to perpetually hunt, kill, and consume; all for the ones that had made him what he is. What he believes he has Become. I want to get out of here. I want to go home, see my wife, my kids, and never tell them what they found here.

I crawl out from under the branches of a starved brush, shuffling toward an opening to my side that sinks out of the fogs grasp. A large set of gate doors, gaping, invite me through their grasp. I stand and move over the gravel that dominates the path. I jerk back when below, there flutters brief movement. It's long gone before I register a genuine shape. A person. Cement steps descend down to a lower yard, but the entrance into it is blocked by a gate shackled with a chain. I stumble the remaining way down the steps, the closer I move to the gate the more the mist makes my skin crawl.

A lamp blazed down on the other side of the fence, amplifying the viscous remains of bodies and organs splint open over barbed wire, and stretched over planks of wood. As I adjust my posture, I see slants of boards braced within an opening. It was a stone wall at one point, it still is, but now there is a huge cavity eroding out its center, its crumbling surface is fortified by the haphazard of planks. The surface of the pale wood is stained with fresh red handprints.

I'm not alone out here.

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**This chapter didn't escape Frank, so it got sliced in half.**


	12. Chapter 12

**I apologize if you came here all excited for an update, and find its only the repeat of the last chapter. I also upload to deviant art, and the former chapter was... too long to post. I adjusted this version as well because consistency. Again, sorry 'bout that.**

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**Paradise and the Dry Lagoon**

I turn away from that fence and slink up the colds steps, toward the front of the now silent building. All silence but for the scratching behind my eyes.

I move along the left side of the fence, seeking breaks, weaknesses. After I make a lap of the small yard, I come across the steps leading up to the wood doors that were reminiscent to me in some way. Lying across the steps near the soil is a body, lab coat drenched in blood. I couldn't recall if he was here when I first passed, if I hadn't noticed him while examining the doors, if I was too preoccupied in seeking danger to see death. It didn't change the fact he was stiff and his blood dry.

As I enter into the next yard I shut the gate behind me, only to set some cold portion of my mind to ease. I breathed in the strong scent of oil and earth as I moved along the base of the building. This irrational fear has settled in my mind, perhaps after spending so long trapped in tight corridors; I feared open, I feared the crushing weight of the fog and the wide expanse of the sky above, as if those things could suffocated me. It felt real, like they could. It as irrational, but I was also afraid of straying too far from landmarks, that I may become lost in the fog indefinitely, despite the bright searing light that helped guide my direction. Staring at it too hard caused my eyes to water and burn.

The heavy scent of mildew clung beneath the sheets of wood and cement foundation. Mount Massive loomed perpetually into the dark vapor overhead, above the impervious structure of its foundation, like a fat clown driving a comically tiny car. In the large gaps above the soil fencing was fixed between the spaces to keep out unwanted animals, and I suppose people as well. In one area the fence had been ripped backed, and I had leaned over to see the structure base of the asylum.

A body, a person, had dragged them self beneath the opening and apparently died there. I didn't get a closer look, but through the gloom I couldn't decide how he might've perished. It disturbed me that this had become a fascination of mine, to decide how each body I viewed might've met their end.

The structural base hit the edge of a wall. I put my hands to its side for support as I moved, trailing further into the fog, uncertain if the wall would end now or where this siding would lead me. When I turned back to view my progress, I found even the industrial lamps blazing upwards to impress the structure, were swallowed up in the watery layers.

Keep you sense of direction. Don't get turned around. It's best to follow walls. I cannot go wrong with following walls.

Light pierced the fog on the other side of the yard. I watched it, as I continued to move along the cold brick. There was a fence on that side, stabbed by the numerous branches of unchecked foliage. The light illuminated the dark sketches of trees further back, beyond the fence. Noises came forth, ticking and sometimes I thought there were voices. They could be feet away, I would never know.

I spun around when I thought I heard one, very close to my ear, mutter something about shadows. I fumbled with my knuckles locked over the camera, trying to pop my joints. It'll be all right. It's hard to see out here, just be calm and quiet. Calm and quiet.

The building came to an edge, a decorative corner protrusion. I crept around the side listening, always hearing something but never actually seeing the origin of sound. It could be noises from windows above, open windows and the sounds trickled out to bounce across the yard; sounds merry and free, escaping from the nightmares their owners were left to. That deduction seemed correct.

A window resurfaced from the swirls of mist, mucky and camouflaged by the dark stone wall, and cloaked in the shadows of the asylum. On a patio outcropping on the ground, metal bars were stacked and collapsing away from the wall. The obstruction forced me to move around rather risk them toppling under my weight and hurting my feet. The distance I had to move from physical structure unnerved me, the fog was too thick, I could almost forget the wall was there if I wasn't careful. I was on a steady incline down, not noticeable when I began moving but I could feel the burn in my legs as I moved down and down.

When I reached a ledge, that dropped into a walkway to a door, I stopped to give myself a chance to catch up. The scraps of my memories began to replay, dragging out the room of windows, my confusion and pain. Questions wound around my mind, stirring up the stagnating swill of fragmented recollections. How long had I been lost? How long had I been lost? I sputtered, choking on the fluid congealing in my throat. Screams, and the wet sounds of organs punctured and torn. I shuddered, nausea bubbling in my gut. The twisting elevators, then the snapping slabs of flesh and white fluid, spreading hot images in my mind. And that smell. That flat odor my mind conjured as the stress escalated, the sensations reset and became anew.

I shivered at the clammy shadows on my shoulders. The scrubs stuck to my skin, suckling on hot baked sweat and the frigid dampness that coated everything. I staggered out of the small walkway, and kept close to the wall. A rusted container by the wall held spare pipes, the corroded surface of each pipe melted and merged into a clump of dark red, and smelt strong like some of the corridors from within the asylum. Another stack of metal braced to the wall, met me near the end of the brick wall. A large window sat in the wall above the stack. Pressed back between the stack of metal and the metal fence that connected to the wall, was another corpse. Dark hair, chest ragged and poking through the openings of his lab coat, blood coated his pants.

I knelt down with the camera. I thought of making a comment, but decided words would fall short of the actual scene. I have before thought of recording myself, my face, and commenting on what I was seeing and explain things better. But… that didn't appeal to me. Not in my state, where I was here, I didn't want to be seen or scrutinized. Dissected by eyes and projection. I didn't want anyone to remember me, the way I am now. What? What had they been hoping to achieve with the experiments. The Project…. What was the project? I made a strange sound as I gathered, the thought had escaped me. It'd come back, after I calmed down a bit. It would come back—

A cold grip snared the hand that held the camera. I snapped back, staring at the corpse as it STARED back at me. My heart ached, swirling dots clambered through my eyeballs, tinting the pale fog with something toxic and inky. I coughed out a sound that was not a word, but it had intended to be a word. I didn't know what was trying to say.

The man through his torment and soaked lungs managed a noise that sounding like "The" or "Tell," before I saw it, the actual light in his eyes, his soul, diminish. His hand dropped and his neck creaked as his head rolled away. "M…sorry."

The air around us was suddenly so still, so quiet. Aside from a feverish pulsing that drummed through my skull, vibrated. I wanted to believe it was my heartbeat, but I knew better. I remembered that buzzing keenly.

Twitching, hesitant, I reached out and used my fingertips and gently press his eyelids shut. I scooted back, first turning and keeping my head low, fearful someone would be there, someone would be waiting to surprise me. The air above my shoulder was empty, and I rose to my feet. One hand trailed the cold metal of the fence, that extended from the walls side. My focus stayed trained on the bright lamp perched above a gate in the fence, the camera was carried beside me. Occasionally, I peer through the fence by me, though I can only see a short distance beyond the netted links. Sounds and clicking-ticking exist out there somewhere, and sometimes what could be voices, or might be cries of pain.

It's been hard telling the difference lately, of what men find amusing and what quenches their carnal appetite for destruction. I want to stop again, but it's becoming a habit. The sounds keep moving. I don't want to be in one place if they find me. Not when I'm so close to escape.

The overgrowth of weeds and dry brush was abundant on the other side of the gate. A broken, stone path led down from the asylums' side, and down to this gate in the fence. I didn't believe I had escaped yet, not until I reached the natural growth of the… a forest. Mount Massive was surrounded by a forest, and hills, wasn't it? Large lumps, visible sometimes through murky glass. And the shrill rasp of a blade on wood.

I shook my head and stepped forward, intending to walk away from the memories crowding my mind. My shoulders shook from the deep groves those recollections gauged out in me, almost as much as the damp air invading the fibers of my jumper. It will help if I keep moving, stay active.

I took the uneven path down through a sparse patch of brush, twigs and weeds snapped at my knees as I wandered in the middle of what must be a yard. It's disorienting leaving the fence, but its buried so deep behind large knotted shrubs its become a hazard. And that light hovering there, is to tempting to divert away from. The jagged ends of branches from large trees turn darker when I pass them in the yard, and fade as we depart. Buried deep in the haze comes the sound of cackles, and rasping, but I see no shape nor do I pick out obvious movement. Somehow I manage to get turned around, my heels skid on the gravelly soil as I stumble about searching high and low for that light. I feel it should be in this direction, but it's not there, and I twirl about until the dull haze of the false sun. I begin in that direction, wet grass and branches slapping at my toes.

Sounds persisted in the distance. I pause to listen, and turn struggling to decide what they could be. If they were dangerous. Just noises. I moved away, making a far path out from the lamp before I began in its direction. I took to jogging when a sound moved through the fog, and by the time I realized it was hastening to my particular space I hadn't—

I yelp at the sharp blow to my lower back and drop. The clamor continued, hard foot falls rattling through the wet haze coiled about me. Maybe shoes, I don't know. I eased myself to my knees and gazed in the direction the cries had fled, but I thought they were coming from behind me? The corpse. The man by the fence? Was he not dead? Did he attack me?

No, he was dead. I watched the life drain from his eyes. Killed him because I couldn't find the main valve, couldn't find the gas chamber. Indirectly murdered him. Manslaughter charges. They'll want man slaughter charges on me.

I gripped my hand into a fist as I sat there, and realized I'd lost the camera. He didn't take it, did he? Where was the camera? I bent low and scanned through welting grass, until I located the device by my foot. I rose, grumbling at the hot taste in my mouth. Calm. Just hang in there. No one's around, I'm safe. Another chatter raised up from nowhere, somewhere. I know the distant howls are not from animals.

I took a deep breath and calmed myself, eased the tenderness from my back as I moved. My heart still throbbed, audibly, as I neared the end of the fence. Branches stabbed through each gap, a shrubs clustered around the base, along with other durable plants unbothered by the harsh climate. The gate was open and the door gone. Within the threshold was a dark spread of copper smelling liquid. Blood. A thick puddle, black as oil, absorbed by the soil and evaporating off the soil. I was cautious as I neared the gate, hoping the thick cement pillar I approached within would somewhat conceal me.

There was little to distinguish on the other side of the fence, but more fences. A short channel constructed to separate one yard from the other, by a gap. The design didn't make sense, and only furthered pained in my head.

It was an alley, or corral yard. A gate was shut at the end on my left, and across the short walk before me. Both gates were secured with a chain and a rusted scabbed padlock. I stepped closer to each and examined the locks, before I turn to follow the open path.

The path elevates, and I'm more or less hiking up a short slope to a light smoldering through soggy air molecules. As I near the cement pillar on my left and the shackled gates before me, I realize I've been here. Or, I saw this place. The compromised gap in the brick wall, where the planks of wood and barbed wire braced – my god the smell. I step aside from the pieces of flesh and inner organs, of what was one or more people. There is no clothing, just a few scraps of cloth stained black, and the stack of flesh brewing with insects.

I cringe back and turn to vomit fluid into the furthest corner of the alley. My free hand locks into the links of the fence while I pressed the knuckles of the other hard onto my sore thigh. I catch a whiff of the raw copper and rot, and spew more of the bare little contents of my stomach. My throat stings, I can't stop coughing and snorting against the burning fluid in my nose. I dry heave, but I don't have the strength to purge again, or I've given up everything in my body. I scoot along the fence facing the large padlock gate, staring into the fenced in area that I had left earlier. My hand trembles against the cold metal, every inch of me is shivering and aching. The hard pebbles of the soil dig into my boney knees and moisture soaks into the fabric of my scrubs, but I can't get my legs to move

Had to keep going. "_I know_." I can't stop here. "_Just try standing."_ I swallowed at the foul remnants at my throat and braced my weight to the fence. The fence helped keep me balanced as I stood, I was very unsteady. Slowly, mechanically, I turn. I avoid looking at the red mess left to the earth and its creatures, and move out around it.

There are bare foot and hand prints gleaming fresh under the yellow blaze of that traitorous light. Beyond the brick stretched the remains of the metal fence, trimmed and bent away to make access to the next yard. The brittle twigs seemed to poke through a low lying swirl of vapor on the ground, but as I stepped over the pale wood and lowered, I saw that the path descended a yard or something.

Trees and more overgrowth lined my direction as I proceeded, my mind continued to struggle with its daze. I made an effort to shuffle around and avoid a wall of branches here, or a patch of harsh stones that dug into the soles of my feet. My feet were sore with blisters, a mild but insistent irritation. I was too focused on the clammy haze settling over the grounds, thickening the deeper into it I ventured. And the near but sometimes distance banter, of chitter and screeches, which come only from where such noises could manifest, the minds sick with grief and fear. Do I hear them, or does my mind supply them? I can't… discern what the sounds are about, are they real and moving through the air?

Though the urgency in me is strong and I move, that there is someplace I must find and soon, I constantly remind myself the man is dead. The man in the purge chamber is dead. He is dead and there is no longer a reason to hurry to his rescue. I failed him and he is dead. I can take my time, I can listen to dead leaves and the unnatural stillness of the yard, and think about graves.

The place feels like a lost cemetery, in some corner of an old cobblestone town in its own little piece of purgatory. I stand upon the graves of dozens of people, the catacombs of a dark past. The stone wall scraping at the edges of the thick fog is a massive tombstone to mark where the fallen lie, the weeds are their flowers, and I have come to visit the single unmarked grave. It is. It is one massive grave dug, because it would be pointless to pick up the bodies, and dig holes of various sizes to hide the remains. Ziploc baggies and shoe boxes, send the pieces to their closest kin. Remind them that they too had families, once upon a time.

It is beautiful to think of this place as a cemetery and remember it as such, to hide away the death and lies made within those walls. There can be nothing more tranquil than strolling through a cemetery and reading the stone headers, of people sleeping beneath the moist soil. A person to a bed, one person on their satin pillow. When my father passed, he too had looked so peaceful in his coffin….

A hoot snapped out clear, despite the suffocating vapor. I stumbled sideways between two large tree trunks, moments before shapes dodge around the inky streaks of low hanging branches and leafless brush. They take form in the mist, solidifying into something I could recognize. A silhouette that is vaguely human.

"We drift by the river." I moved back as one shadow darted by. I didn't get a glimpse of him, of the person. I only concluded he wore dark clothing and carried a long tool across his palms. "And drown in the st— the…." I didn't hear the rest as he vanished from sight, buried by miles of moisture and metal rusting into the ground.

As I stood and began creeping away from the direction he vanished into, hard footfalls and legs slapped by wet grass snagged my attention. Another shadow shot from the gloom, my body froze tight. He came at me fast, his features molding into a tattered face stitched sideways. The patient jerked out of my gaze and kept going, his shoulder breezed mine upon passing.

I still stood there as sounds came, somewhere far beyond my mortal gaze. Clinking and cracking of metal and lonely howls, from the ones abandoned in the shadows. My heart thudded with the fear of it, with the melancholy of it all, but it was also the bitter sorrow. Shadows could get lost too, memories could scatter and lose their way. Victims. Snatched from the suns face and stuffed into the shadows Mount Massive cast. To be forgotten and lost perpetually in the deep pit that swallowed souls.

The light was a lie, an illusion to follow forever until the way was lost. I could smell the harsh smog rolling through my thoughts, burning away the physical and vibrant photos of faces I wanted to dream about. Memories I had no right to. Don't leave me. Don't forget me in this place. Please, don't….

A twig snaps in my hand, the delicate seeds stick to my palms as I release the weed and let the crushed bits trickle through the haze. I lower the camera beside my hip as I take another plant shoot in my free hand and snap the stem. I continue to do this as I move, half listening to the metal rattling, half focused on my footing on the greasy slope.

Overhead, sounds clatter out, getting hung up in the brittle branches piercing the low cloud cover. I thought it was a bird, but the cry tore out and dimmed into soft chatter that was insect like. The hair on my neck bristled to pick up such shrieks, and I hurried my trek across the yard towards wherever I was headed, eyes on constant alert to my tight perimeter.

My visual range was poor, and the ground was not always visible beneath me as I wandered through waist high weeds and brush. The pale light of a lamp spilled over me and I became immediately excited, until I approached the brick frame torn in the fog and realized I had gotten turned around again. The sounds had delicate buzzing softened in my ears, but remained near. Was… was something following me?

I kept beside the rusted fence at my side, struggling to keep it in view through the icy coils of mist and the harsh foliage that stabbed at me. Stumbling over the slick dirt, I nearly fell when I put the arch of my foot down on something painful and sharp. Just a soggy branch. Through the chain fence I could define the flat top of a cement floor, or walkway, covered in old plywood and rusted barbed wire. I couldn't see what was beyond the ledge, only that it was cut off by the swirls of mist.

My jumper got caught on branches when the overgrowth became so thick, I had to leave the fence and brave the open space of the yard. I remained close to the brush fearful of moving to far away, of losing my way and traveling in endless circles forever and ever. My hands slipped over the branches, to the base of saplings, always keeping as much of the yards side in view. The strange calls clamored; a rustle of leaves yet the air remained stiff, muggy. The soft metallic dragging grew softer as I stood where I had stopped, and waited for the sounds in my mind to fade.

The brittle timber thinned out under the optimistic gleam of a lamp perched high upon a dark, gray pole. Dim pastels and white fell across the cement steps that led upward, to a cobblestone patch stained by dark water and whatever else. In the distance, more false suns lingered, beckoning, welcoming my eyes with their harsh light.

Lamps, I reminded. They were just lamps, burning through the fog. They only seemed miles away, what with the air being so thick and hard to breathe. Thick with concrete baked in long summers, and timber rotting into the septic soil. Nothing smelled right; everything had a tinge of rot, the soil itself was polluted. It was all damned.

I set my hand upon the cold rail of the door and raised the camera. I examined the visor and debated if carrying the camera like this was wise. The visual enhancement, that didn't work in the fog. But I wanted the camera active, recording what I was seeing. There was no point in recording dirt and metal fences, but what if I missed something? Such as the red splatters across the steps, moving downward from the direction I was heading toward? The toes pointed to me, the heel proceeded after the toes.

I climbed the steps up—eleven I counted—to the first flat. Two new stacks of stairs faced opposite ends at my shoulders, and before me stood a blank brick wall of no description, aside from the eroded sealant between the chipped layers. Atop the wall was a ledge with a rail and behind that, a towering wall dotted with glittering windows, and one that was as dark as an open grave.

I dropped my attention back to the steps and paused. Was I hearing voices now? I can't tell, the noises cut and bounce up and around the air. I think somehow the fog muffles them, like speaking through wet cloth. I take a step forward, moving toward the right set of stairs. There are twelve sets of steps, and they end at a shut gate in a fence assembled between brick walls. As I gain height I can see in the gap beneath the threshold a dark puddle, and the origin of the red print splatters that led down the steps. The shadows that streaked across the yard, and haunted the branches with their shriek. They came from here. This was their home, and I had come through their yard.

Regardless, the door was locked and rattled when I wrenched it by the handle. But shadows didn't need open doors to escape, no they didn't. But… no. They weren't out, they were still quarantined. I know this, I didn't see anything.

I examined the solid walls around me and looked up at the barbed wire curled above the fence and atop the gate. I was uncertain if I could climb the fence, or if I should reserve that kind of desperation for another time. The toothy wire itself would be impossible to get over without shredding my skin. There was a way around, and I would find it. A way through if necessary, or, make a window. It wouldn't work to cut a window into metal, but I could look around. I had time, there was plenty of time now. No one was waiting for me, I wasn't in danger; it was safe here outside, in the open like this.

A thin path wound around, connecting to the top of the opposite set of stair steps. I followed it beneath a tall wall reaching off in all directions into the forever vapor, dissolving like bits of peoples sanity dissolved inside the Asylum; going and going the further in touch with reality they became. The path opened up above the steps and mirrored its twin, but the gate in its fence was open. Wide open. I stepped through and pulled the gate shut, as I rotated in place my gaze drifted over the dark contours of brick and dirt encrusted floor; I shudder at the weight of the murk occupying this thin space. Briefly, I was taken by the sudden collision of urban scents; aged grease and rust, noxious waves of mildew, along with the lingering breath of the asylum.

For a long minute I was terrified. I had this soul leeching certainty that I was still locked inside a trapped in the Asylum, trapped in a room, deluded by some form of hallucinations and rolling in the dark. I stepped back against the fence and felt moisture, the cold lash of metal. I struggled to calm my thoughts. I'm outside, I'm lost but I'm also outside. This is just an alley where staff dumped junk, this isn't inside. I'm still outside. Lost, but outside. I repeated it in my mind as I departed the fence, always with a wall to my shoulder.

A voice lumbered out, strained by the task of breathing but not fighting the heavy air. I don't think. I move slowly listening, leery of the voice and its taxed owner. All around me large walls rose from the cobblestone floor, brick upon brick stacked high into the murky clouds above. Large windows glared down at me, judging my presence with their marred and dulled glass.

"_How did This one get out?_" They accused.

"_You're just a patient._" They insisted.

Wrong. They're wrong. Lies. Telling stories.

The air became so cold from the hostile stare it froze the edges of my jumper. I massaged the sleeves between my fingers, loosening the fibers and restoring some warmth to my skin. Even the false suns couldn't reach this place, whatever dark crypt of the asylum I had stumbled into. We all were forgotten here.

From the murk crawled an outdated picnic table, the sort left out at parks with two benches at its sides. The table was slanted out from the wall, the wood boards of the table's top had succumbed to the elements and twisted upward; its display somehow reminded me of a dried out beetle in a gutter. Near the wall beside the table sat a thick metal crate filled with broken pipes dissolving through the mist, and across from the container was a door cut out of the brick wall.

"Hhn… thirty-two…." The voice and grunts came from the other side of that gate within the brick. I put my hand on the door handle but made no action to turn it, I steadied myself as I leaned around the edge and gazed through the gaps in the gate. It took a painful long moment of gawking before I could discern the actual movement, what it was. I observed the dim outline of a patient mumbling, and shooting a lumpy… shape, at what must've been a basketball goal. "Ninety."

I shift my footing as the shape misses its mark, and cracks across the cement floor. _Cracks_. The sound of it is muffled and wet, I can hear a clicking. The details of the court itself must be there, but I cannot make them out through the cameras limited zoom; only that it is sizable open area and lamps burn with a golden intensity from somewhere above. The light may be the culprit behind why that persons skin is so distorted and jagged. I see no one else, no one to mark his game, or take the ball away. It's just him.

"_He's playing alone and losing. That is what the game is._

_There is a mathematical proof, if you add 1 + 2 + 3 + 4 + 5 up to infinity, you can arrive at an answer. If you stop shy of infinity, you have an indescribably long number. If you continue all the way to infinity, you arrive at - 1/12. Negative 0.0833333 repeating."_

I stop and turn my head on its side. I blink at the page where numbers and scratches burn against the stark off white of the page, a few half worked equations and some simple addition and division; there's a small stick figure accompanying a map, I think the figure of the man is supposed to be me, I don't remember why I drew it. The edges of the page have notes that make no sense, greater than and less than crocodiles; I always told my son they were crocodiles.

"Twenty-four."

"_I'm losing my grip on things._"

I turn enough to see over my shoulder as the ball tumbles from its owner. The brick is icy against my shoulder blades, and the damp soil seeps into the seat of my jumper. I stare at the page I was writing on, the other one after the note I made. Number sketch has worked up and down, and across the page until a sizable figure has been constructed. I recognize it as a mathematical evidence of a number aimed towards infinity, on the positive range. But I had to stop, because infinity is recognized as a sideways figure eight. If you put a minus sign before infinity, it indicates negative perpetually. That can be a bad thing, in regards to science. But how do we know that there isn't a negative spectrum in the universe?

My dad introduced the theory of infinity to me when I was young, before grade school. It blew my mind and I thought about the concept for hours, gazing at the stars through the dark sky while we drove back from…. Someplace. Some relatives, or work. Probably family.

I chewed on the pens top as I listen to the patient prattle his random numbers. How often did I talk to my eldest? He was conversational, wasn't he? Yeah, he was. He liked aliens, he liked movies with aliens. Lisa didn't approve of his fascinations, or my humoring of him. I smile, my lips ache from the cut but it felt good to remember and react to the memories. Sometimes on long road trips we talked all about them, missing time and stuff like that. Lisa told them ghost stories, she knew some certifiable creepy ones. Turn the radio down, the kids would be fully enraptured for a whole full.

A strangled sound comes out of me when it hits, the recollection of where I am, what I'm supposed to be doing. My toes are numb, blood and mud coat my feet and the skin crinkles as it all dries. I'm scribbling more of these math equations I don't understand on some pages, front and back until the air around my head is strong with the bite of blue ink. It sickens my gut that I'm still here, listening to numbers spill from the basketball player. I'm still here and I haven't moved an inch. If I do, if I keep going… I'm all right, here. I'm still here.

_"I'm thinking about the drive here, 400 miles in a rented truck. The job that shows up just in time to cover our bills, our debts, the insurance. The boys sleeping in the back, nothing but AM radio. Gospel, Country-Western, late night paranoiac talk radio. We sang Patsy Klein songs and laughed at conspiracies of aliens and ghosts. Mile marker numbers passing in the headlights. I don't want to die here."_

"Seven… and two."

I hold my head a bit longer and stare down at the filthy cobblestone ground. Have to keep moving. Have to keep going. But I don't want to.

I stuff the pen into the spiral spine of the notebook and cram the notepad into the pouch on the belt. The score count fades as I drag myself on, vapor and shadows thicken, making it perilous to hasten my steps without checking my footing. My feet slip over rusty cables coiled on the stone floor, and I hurt my palm when I catch myself in the fall. There is too much crud scattered about, and the night enhancement of the camera refuses to aid. I wonder if it's actually broken, if somewhere I hit it or jarred the camera in some ill way and now its only purpose is to supply me with false comfort. The theory is too ugly. I can't bear to think that my obligation to this piece of hardware is now worthless. I can't.

I have to hunch over and rely on the choked visibility to avoid stepping on anything jagged, such as glass of rusted fence rolls abandoned along the walls. Dull light washes across the next corner, illuminating struggling weeds growing from the lower edge of the brick.

Above, across from my position I can make out ladders and platforms. A place that is high, a place that would be far away from dangers and where I would have visual advantage. I step around a pile of metal beams and insect riddled wood crumbling into the cobblestone; I'm mesmerized by what is above. My eyes blink away tears triggered by the acrid radiance cutting through the fog, silhouetting the tall structure for all to see in the fog. Walls, more brick; a building stretching toward the heavens, as the tower of Babel had in legend. I scarcely watch where I am headed, my mind preoccupied with plotting the course. If I knew where I was, I could draw a map. Was there a way? I want to be there, that's as far as my instincts supply. I can get there, reach a high spot and decide where next I should move on. Find a path, the easiest route. Make it easy, don't complicate it. Keep things simple.

I jerk around and stare at a pair of doors I had missed. They wait at the end of several wide steps that elevate a few feet off from my side. On the opposite side of the doors a patient slams against the metal structure, snorting and panting, fighting to reach me? I can't make out specific details, but there is enough light in the hall that I can see his face is harsh, and glistens with sweat through the window in the door. His eyes are white, completely white, and terrifying.

On impulse I dive forward, weaving between the brick wall and metal crates filled with rebar or pipes. A fence flashed into sight beneath the bright pool of light, offered by a forgotten slice of reprieve pouring from above. The door to the gate is missing, but within is a small cage lined by brick, with a section of fence stretched across my path. A dead end!

I can buy some time. It's not much, not even enough. The door to the gate leans against the fence before me, worthless. I scuffle with the door, unable to get a grip with the camera occupying one hand. The amputated door hits the cobblestone with a clatter, I don't spare it a second glance as I lurch aside. The sounds at the door become violent, desperate. He could smash through at any moment. The gate in the fence is fixed tight with a padlock, but I fight with it anyways, little whimper noises lift under my chin as the metal clanks and prattles. I can't see far beyond the fence through the swirling shroud of moisture, I don't care to extend my search either. It doesn't matter if I can't get through. I could try climbing it.

I fidget with the camera in my hands as I twist around, assure myself that through my ruckus the patient still fights the door, he hasn't come from me yet. I notice the stone wall at my side, and a door left wide open. To my dismay I can see from my angle that there is very little to the room; two people in it would clutter the space. It could complicate killing, it might prove difficult to die in.

I dive in and snap the door shut after me. Stale breath gets lodged in my throat as I stare down at the lone desk, and a chair. Numerous files had been fitted into a box on the desks corner, and a lamp poured gentle light across the worn oak surface and onto the surrounding walls and floor. The phone left off the receiver buzzed into my thoughts, insisting the place I had left was calling. It wanted me back. It craved my insanity, and the pain that my memories caused me.

I pressed my damp knuckles to my forehead as I set the phone back onto its receiver. It took a second to get the flash of white, of feather images, to subside. I gave the small closet another evaluation. The wall across from the door had evidence of an existing room or additional closet, revealed partially by the lamp and the brick eroded away enough to expose the hinges buried in plaster. I dug at the soft cement but found the brick held firm, and the desk was in the way.

Insects buzzed about my face as I stood observing the door that I had come from. The only door this room has. The noises beyond it faded, or I believed they did. Did this mean the patient had crashed through? He would have found me here easily enough, unless he forgot I was here. Or had his anger been directed at the door in the first place, and I was an innocent trespasser, easily forgiven?

No, I couldn't take chances. He was violent and angry, and he would've turned his fury on me once he got out. There was no telling what would've happened. I had done the right thing. Keep thinking that. Stay alive, take no chances.

I waited longer but still there was no living sound, only the flutter of wings of insects humming about my head. I accept the sound; it didn't invade my body, didn't bring about intrusive and vivid phantasms that harmed me. But I was doing nothing, save for standing here and losing time; each tick of the clock became a notch in my soul. I couldn't stay in this tiny coffin, the atmosphere was stifling and the odor rancid.

I shivered as I gripped the door handle in one hand, and braced my shoulder to the door. A few of the moths land on my neck. I barely flinch as I steel my nerves, and listen for sounds beyond the damp steel. "_Open the door. NOW._"

The hinges whimper softly as I launched the door outward, before I could stop myself. An oily draft swept over my face, prodded through the thin shoulders of my jumper. I blink and glanced off the brick wall, toward the golden blaze of a lamp through the edge of the fence that corralled my side. The fog is calm, void of echoes. A pocket of silence settled over meme.

No one was there.


	13. Chapter 13

**Wings of Wax**

PRISON BLOCK

There was no sign of the patient who had fought to tear through the paired doors. I peered through the windows edges, of the door on the right; the mesh wire in the glass troubled my sight. It didn't conceal the long hall within, or the plain evidence of havoc and scatter; a crushed ladder, paint cans, and tattered folders. The hall ended at a T, the lamps don't work at the unreachable goal, but the red pulse of the light thrived— flash and dim, flash and dim, repeating rhythmically as I watch transfixed. The heartbeat of the asylum, a tempo identical to my own throbbing organ. Except the asylums heart was red and cold, same a dwarf sun, its survival leeched life from anything breathing.

My free hand ran over the pouches containing the few items I had gathered. I set my fingers on the top of one pouch, beside the belts excessive length. The Prison Block had power, outdated and ruined but the lights were on. But the door would not give. Not in a million years. If an aggressive patient couldn't force it, then my chances of walking through solid wall to gain access were greater. So close. I was so close. But galaxies away. Worlds away. There was an alternate way to the solution, I don't know where. I had to find it. Stay alive, look around, stay focused. I know what I should look for. A place disconnected from the carnage, a safe zone to think, no matter how suffocating the fog became. I need a goal in mind. The work around.

A means to an end.

I examined the high walls surrounding me as I retraced my steps. The fog thinned around the blazing lamps glaring down into the alley, and I could skim the faint traces of fences up high, edges crowned by gnarled barbed wire. Fences meant confined areas, places blocked in. But it was a vantage where I could be out of reach, and better my chances of finding some hint of a landmark to follow. If not, I would still have a chance of stumbling upon an open window.

I gulp down quaking breath. My hand trails along cold brick as I move around the corner, into the thick cloak of swirling mist. The heavy scent of aged oil pricks my nose; its presence draws up memories of mechanic garages, outdated machines. Places that wouldn't be sterile and hidden from the public. Places most families visit once or twice in busy work week. The residual vapor brought up throaty coughs with each shallow pant.

I dither near the chain-link door and listen to the sounds of the player, locked away in the basketball court. He continues to count, and by appearance is still alone. I pity him, but I don't feel sorry; his priorities are straight.

I look to the wall I lean on, and feel the dampness lingering in my sides when I sat there, writing to Lisa. I remember. But the faces of my boys remain fuzzy, distant. Gone. A part of me reasons I shouldn't try dredge them up in this place, but I can't help it. I want to remember what I've struggling toward, I need to think them above myself, and keep the fire inside me burning.

Cold. The air is painful on my skin and my toes ache. I don't want to move on, no one can make me, it's unbearable. But I take a step and force myself to carry on. Walking isn't hard but my mind supplies images; pain, fear. I am a long way from the world, I'm far from sanity.

Some obstruction catches my foot - a bent loop of cable. I stumble toward the open gate and kneel on a dry patch of cement. Under the muggy glow of the lamps, I examine the pale seepage of heat in my skin. A shallow scrape stretches over the top of my foot, seeping thousands of tiny red dots. I pull my sleeve over my palm and rub off the spreading color, but more dots swell across the raw skin. It doesn't hurt and this worries me.

And I remember shutting this gate.

Closed doors didn't stop them from following, but it gave me some minor (false) security. And it felt important to me; gave me some credible direction in the fog.

The remorseful chatter would pick up. It could be the clicks of metal gates shut and opened, again and again, over and over. I had seen patients ducking through the mist, obscure ghosts hiding from the light, hoots from disturbed men. They could be lost, or they could be running from uprooted hazards chasing them.

"Fifteen." Or they could all be delusional. I don't know what I believed. Volatile, dangerous, killing the ones that maimed them.

The gate was open and I slowly rose peering out, listening to the sounds of the losing game, and the rustling on the air. Was it closer now? It could be. It wasn't always doors. Sometimes, the crooning bubbled from the deepest corners of the room. I was running from my shadow, the further I displaced from the light the more my shadow stretched, detached from my ankles. It loomed, whirring angry, feather dark clouds coughing off the blurry outline. It hurt, god it hurt to push myself on.

"No." I slumped on the narrow path that ran above the lower landing. A shape shot from the fog and swept down the steps muttering, sobbing I think. "Oh god, no." He carried something heavy – a big stick – but he never looked my way. I watched his back retreat into the mist like the memories I struggled to chisel from my mangled thoughts.

The first time I saw this place. Huge, massive. A façade. The front lawn expertly maintained, not a loose leaf in sight; grass cropped and shaved, no blade out of place; brush sculpted into little boxes. The front doors sank under the imposing edifice, and the expanding walls reached far into the clouds; vicious lightening robs pierced the sky, tatters of bleeding light scattered across the stone path that led to those ill, gaunt doors.

It was dusk, nearly dark, but it was the only time they could see me…. They wanted to see me, in person? Yes. Yes, they did. I know that. But did they actually speak to me, or were they talking to my wife? She came with me. She wanted to make sure I was all right, to support me. Were those tears in her eyes, or was she concerned? We were leaving each other? No, I can't remember. The image blurs and it's the elevator gate, expanding, contorting into its heap. I'm swaying as I sit perched behind doors, rocking. That shrieking din clawing into my memories, and hissing. Pipes hissing.

Where are you? Come back. Where are you? You have to come back. Focus. FOCUS!

I jerk out of the twitches and cough, struggling on fresh breath. The damp mist solidifies in my lungs, making the situation worse. I turn myself, and realize my hand is latched to a bar supporting the rail above me. My knuckles have turned white and it doesn't look like my hand; the hand looks cold and dead, and lost to bog water. My leg has slipped just over the edge and I feel the tingle in my toe tips, as a calamity of clashing signals works to supply sensation in my dulled nerves. I pull myself up and crawl from the edge, my numb leg scraps uselessly to the cement under me. When I put my palms to the moist ground it sparks in my mind hot and fresh, the camera! Where is the camera? I pad down the pouches wrapped about my waist, before I tear my eyes across the damp cement. I find it teetering at the edge, a six foot drop under it.

As if working to cage a frightened bird, I very carefully loop my fingers around the plastic case and drag the camera back to me. I breathe a small sigh with the device sheltered in my hands, recording. Recording everything.

I have a curiosity in me, to back up a minute or two and view what the camera rightfully should have caught. But I make excuses. I don't want to risk figuring out the specific functions of the camera, rewind or pause. I check again, it is recording. I have close calls with it, protecting the camera isn't my forefront priority; I can't envision myself dying for it, even with the understanding it may be the only thing salvageable if… I don't think my mind could suffer through… attacks. I keep having them.

I push it out of my mind, work to erase thoughts and overwrite my concerns with the immediate. Where am I going?

There's a sign high on the wall, over where I dropped. The once white was now tinged with the cruel effects of time, the faded words PRISON BLOCK stood out, above the reverse facing arrows. There's a work around. The patient opened the gate across from me. They have keys. They cut doors out of walls, they make a work around. It's not a window, it's not my way, but I'll use it. I have every right to.

My eyes fix on the shimmering red puddle in the threshold of the gate. I trail the rail with my hand, and keep the camera gripped tightly. I strain my senses into the cotton weave of the atmosphere, but hardly do I ever pierce the glare with my eyes. There are sometimes shapes dancing around, not full forms but a glob of a head or leg as the figure jigs around. I don't pick up much of the chatter now, over the persistent chime of the ballplayer. I wish he would shut up.

The cobblestone is icy on my feet. I hug close to the fence and wall, as I step over the puddle. Harsh light presses down over my shoulders, and wafts from the wall by my shoulder. The fence continues, folding out from my side and blots out a line of trees threading through the mist. I keep close to the warm brick, where I don't feel as exposed. As vulnerable.

For an intense second I believe I am above the place in the alley, and able to look down on the area I have only just come from. I easily reason with myself that I'm not facing the correct way, and that I've not reached the Prison Block yet. This mental disorientation unsettles me. I got turned around, it happens. I'm eager, anxious – I don't know what I'm feeling.

I angle the camera on a corpse pinned against a door in the wall, swaddled by yellowed light. He was sort of folded backwards, with something white poking from the shirt folds bunched in the crease of his lower back. With a lurch, I realized it was bone.

I toppled into the fence behind me, eyes fastened to that body while I held the camera in front of my chest. Dozens. I'd seen dozens die today, in a hundred different ways. I take comfort that my revulsion for death has not yet wavered. How long, I wonder?

There's a gate in the fence behind me. Beyond the barrier more light smoldered through the mist, and a railed walkway suspended over a void. A body was draped over the rail like sad laundry, half undressed; someone had taken his shirt. I stare on the corpse as I thrust my arm out, mechanically, and try the handle of the door. Locked. Locked. It's locked. I can't get through.

Door. Was the corpse, the twisted man, was he trying to get through the door behind me? I turn slowly and hesitate from moving closer. The body is stiff, and it makes my skin crawl when I lay my hand on his shoulder. He must've been here for some time. An awful wheeze came from the body as I pushed it aside, and this noxious odor slipped past my nose. I stuffed my face into the crook of my arm, as soon as the body was enough out of the way that I could reach the handle without his dead eyes gazing at me. For all my efforts, the door is fixed tight in its frame. My eyes water as I catch the lingering whiff of the soured musk. I rub my palm on the rough brick, and remove the sensation of the stiff shirt sleeve over cold flesh.

Have to keep moving. There has to be another way. The patient came from somewhere, I'm certain.

Strange sounds lift from the thicket beyond the fence. I don't always catch the wiry echoes; usually hissing or grating, sometimes it I think its laughter. The way the fog hovers and the wall directly behind me, the clamor at times seem far away, or as I stand where I am and listen, it idles very close. Frighteningly close. I want to run far from it, but I have no place to escape and no place to hide.

Above. Find the high place.

My hand slips into open air. I set my hands to the side of the open gate, check and assure my eyes that this way is open and I am not contained. The rest of the enclosure that I stood had nothing more to offer, but scattered timber piled in a corner, and more fences.

I creep down the faded, sinking steps. My ears track the sparse canopy overhead as branches crackle and trickle down, falling somewhere around my perimeter in the haze that I cannot see. There is only the audible threat lingering at the fringes of my narrow senses, but I never see if my ears are working right. The thicket surrounds me, cold grass folds under my blood soaked toes. I don't mind the icy mud, and prefer the hard soil on my soles scrubbing off my sins. I stall in my tracks and crouch over a pile waterlogged plywood. There's movement in the grass not far from the wide canopy of light I'm stationed by. Dry plant growth yielding under a mass. A low, winding bawl spirals overhead. It's not an animal, I don't know—

The thicket is choked with greasy branches, mercilessly clawing at my hands and face as I push my way through. I sprung aside, blindly tearing into the harsh overgrowth that has swarmed the yard. For a while I see no fence, no path; only the suffocating damp haze and knotted timber. I snap my head around, and hit my eye on something wet and hard. Abruptly, I collapse in a clear patch of gravel and hold my face. Shit… shit, don't be blind. The branch might as well have skewered me; staked me out here to ward off the wise, the sane. Shit, fuck, can't afford to lose one eye.

My eyes weep excessively and my vision is partly blurred, but no doubt I can see. I'm only stunned. I'm all right. Altogether. It feels like I'm crying; my shoulders quiver as I loop my arms over my chest. Eye just hurt, I'll recover in a second.

A corpse lies beneath a low mesh of plant shoots, right beside where I fell. Even under the shadows his face is pained. I keep the camera close to my front as I crawl away and stagger to my feet. I found a way through the fence, but I had to run. I struggle to lessen my thick wheezes and rubbed the water from my eyes.

Whatever I had seen before, if I did see something, it was gone. At least, this I'm sure of. Some sort of illusion, in this fog.

I follow the fence, left arm arched around my head to bar off the jagged twigs snapping at my eyes. Even the plants are insane and wild on these grounds; probably driven to lunacy by the sickness that consumed those that lived and breathed on the soil. If I paused and listened, I could hear them now. They rip their roots free and crawl over the soil, following potential victims, slowly caging in their oblivious prey until it's too late; cousins to the flesh eating plants of deep dark jungles, fully capable of dragging the resilient explorer to their spiny jaws.

A slimy branch hikes up my calf, clawing through the thin scrubs. I give a high pitched yelp and topple over the pile of wood flattened into the gravel. The camera is levered into chinks in the broken wood plates, and I vault over the break in the fence line. I don't heed where I'm going in my single minded mission to flee. At my backside, the low hanging branches twist and cackle, disappointed by my escape. They have one corpse to chew on for now, they don't need mine.

I cringe on the metal grate of the floor, and press back into a cold metal bare behind me. The grove becomes inactive with the loss of its prey, and settles back until the next victim wanders in to become lost. I hug the camera to my chest as I use the rail to pull me up, my toes curl into the large gaps of the grate I stand on. I don't look away from the fence as I back away, not until the edges of the bent opening have faded in the fog.

My shoulders persist to shake, but around me the silence has returned; aside from soft footfalls on the catwalk. I move along until I reach an edge that takes a sharp left, a body sagged over the rail adjacent to my path. It looked familiar, but I have seen so many broken corpses in one short day, they all have begun to look like the next. This one has lost his shirt.

The walkway dead ends at the fence. I look over the side but cannot make out what is below, aside from a lamp scorching mist, and evidence of a wall scarcely visible. It's a pit, I decide. I hug close to the rail as I retrace my steps and come near the cage of the thickets lair. My head throbs, I don't understand why my head hurts. It looks like a few tree limbs have tried to tear through the gaps in the fence, but I they're avoidable as I keep going.

My path arrives on another dead end, a shackled gate. I gaze through the fence in front of me and see trees, a bright lamp burning. Overhead, the barbed wire is thick but I might be able to get over it, but if I fall I risk of hitting the rail and toppling into the pit.

Below my level, across the open gap is another walkway, with no visible rails around it. I don't think I could get back up to my side, if I couldn't find a way down from there. But there must be a ladder, or something to get up or down. I slipped through the rail and pulled my back flush with the cold metal. I put the camera strap in my teeth, steadied my feet on the slick metal, and leapt.

A face tore out of the fog. It looked like a face, it had large, round eyes and a nose. My throat locked up as I choked out a sound. Suddenly nothing was under me. I saw gray mist whirl as I flipped backwards, chunks of timber from the grate followed. The ground collided with me the instant I registered the weightlessness, and for a painful long moment my vision was doubled and blurred; the chunks of timber emitted muffled clatters when they hit cobblestone.

The icy puddle I had fallen onto soaked through my thin scrubs and the shirt underneath. I whined as I rolled over, dragging my head from the puddle, my teeth latched to the Velcro strap. I lay in a daze and blinked at my muddled surroundings, until the fuzzy gray began to grind back into proper order. I choke on each grating inhale, and have to spit out the camera. My whole body was stunned, head sizzling as my sensory returned to something like normal. I'm recovering. Slowly.

I shivered and stretched out a bit on my side. The clatter of metal caught me – a fist beating at the fence? – I winced and I cowered down onto the hard cement. The face, those wild eyes that burned through the haze. His expression was horrible, lost, desperate. The idea that it could have been my reflection, that I had seen myself briefly scampering through the shroud of the yard. That is what chewed at me. I could've turned out like that.

I make certain to put a hand first on the camera, before leaning over and rubbing at my stiff back. I'm getting through it, I'm fine. No, I wasn't. I felt my head but there was only icy mud soaked into my scalp, a few strands of hair stuck to my hand as I brought it back to inspect for blood. I just knocked the wind out of me.

I pushed myself upright and swayed as I peered up at the starlight of grate leering down. I could hear the clatter above and my reflection… it brought about withering blooms of white fluttering in the edges of my eyes. The bathroom, a man choking on toilet water, begging, sobbing. Dying. That was not my reflection. I didn't find a mirror, I left the bathroom. Forget it. Keep moving. Don't let them catch you.

The diluted illumination from overhead was cut off by another platform in the far side of the wall, below the two I had crossed. I trailed along toward the deep shadows, the scent of humid sewage and the metallic bite soaked my sinuses. A warm draft swept over my bare neck, as I leaned over seeking openings. None looked promising. Beyond the large pipes connecting into the earth, there was nothing but an unyielding darkness. The pit was a grave that went deeper than imagination, and more real than fiction. A death trap.

As I set my hand upon the cold rust of one pipe, a sharp thought shot through me. Would.… It was unbearable to think of. To admit or humor, that after all I have seen, what was done to me. I shut my eyes as if the light of this possibility was merciless and painful. Would my sons recognize me? When was the last time I saw them? Spoke to them? I'm a terrible parent. How could I leave my family like this? How could I?

I used the dry edge of my elbow to wipe the remaining moisture from my wounded eyes. It'll work out, somehow. I'm sure Lisa will help come up with something. She's so in tune with the boys. I know she will.

The floor was cement, covered with waterlogged cardboard, planks of wood, and rusted pipes dumped along the walls. The grave was a water channel, deep enough to collect a flood. Slimy mud squished between my toes as I moved along the wall, away from the large pipes and oily tinge. I make an effort to ignore my sore muscles; my body rebukes my efforts and quivers uncontrollably. The fabric of my jumper stuck to every deep curve of my skin and bone, my free hand traced along the hard knots of my ribs. I moved back under the light, into tight walls of brick and cement, the path ahead was carved through by a shallow gutter; one wall was lined by an elevated walkway. By some odd twist the water in the gutter was crystal and clear, I could see the placid silt and cracked cement beneath the shallow surface. But it also looked icy and I kept to the thin path over it. Kept my focus ahead, in case another face come careening from the gloom. I couldn't know if I was haunted or not. It was quiet now, the sounds of the thicket and metal clinking faded at my back.

I breathed warm breath onto my knuckles, and tried cracking the tension from my frigid joints. The shadows deepened around my eyes, then retired to the mortar in the brick around me. Chunks of wood and soggy timber lay heaped on the end of the cement channel, on a platform. Thick bars crossed the end of the path, driftwood and brittle bits of plant matter had plastered across the outside. I step over discarded cables as I move to the ladder, slicing into the light above. Moths flutter about gaily, pestering my face and shoulders.

Harsh light gleamed down the open access chute, from my angle I couldn't make out details; a wall, a brick roof. Slurred words blurted off the stale breeze, what is said was lost to me. I pushed the camera into its pouch and began the climb. The weight forced onto the arch of my feet ached, but it wasn't a high ladder. It was claustrophobic in the tight confines of the chute, but there was enough room to keep my shoulders from brushing the sides. I made an effort to hush the anxious little pants between my lips, and made my steps as quiet as possible.

Toothy barbed curled over the metal rim of the access, before the fences rose into view. I crawled up over a thick grate and gave the nearest perimeter a slow scan taking in what was visible. On the cement at either side lay long metal panels, hinges in the base of both. Doors. The chute was normally shut over the grave, but something had changed.

"One."

I crawled a ways from the chute and listened. The voice continued. I recognized it, I think I do. It was strained and bit at the air.

The space beside the chute was filled with tall brick wall, and warmth. Despite the untamed radiance, the fog was firm in its efforts to limit my visual range. Ancient picnic tables hugged close to the brick, leaving only enough space for me to squeeze through the middle. Fences stretched parallel to the angular and jagged wall; rows of fences gleamed proudly through the fog.

It was so bright above. I stare up as I move, trying to find the sun but the light came from every side. As I picked at my steps, I ran my hand over the coarse surface of one table, bent at an angle beside me. My eyes trailed through the field of fences. I imagined fence after fence after fence, frosted by harsh thorny wire. A maze of fences. A planet of fences. Crossing, cutting, cornering, endlessly. I had ample opportunities to stop and stare through the hooked links, view the exact spot I –beyond desperation – needed to reach, but years of travel and never would my path cross that one place.

I don't know what dark crease in my brain these thoughts spurred from. But forever fences made sense to me. It felt less threatening and the idea of conquering them felt feasible; unlike survival.

The camera was a tough piece of equipment. I ran my thumb along its lower edge and felt the fresh scrapes in the plastic, the once sleek gray was stained with pale pink blotches. I rubbed at the off color patches as I moved among the tables, my eyes skipped over the chain threaded barrier holding me in.

A window! Someone made a window in the fence. I gawked at it, blinked twice. It was there. I hadn't expected to ever see a window out here, but it was. The steel lattice sparkled keenly along the trimmed edges, and each wire was folded aside to the metal poles that anchored the fence into the cement under me; the perimeter of the metal bars in the fence was reinforced by timber, and planks of wood braced against the bottom of the hacked wire. The opening was large enough to step through, but the threads of wire looked sharp.

I felt a dull stinging in my side, and moved my arm back from the curved wire. A small red spot formed in the upper sleeve of my shirt. When did that happen?

The hurt didn't feel serious. I would've checked but that required unzipping my shirt, and getting the thin undershirt off; I didn't have time for that. I rubbed at the warm spot as I climbed through the ragged window. Someone made it for me, this window. Anyone could use it, true, but it meant a lot that they trimmed out a frame rather than a tall opening, like a door. This was good. I pushed down sharp edges that had not been turned away. Whoever came through next, if ever, would not have a risk of cutting skewering them self.

The fences enclosed me in a thin lane, a linear path. Even high above on the visible brick walls, fence and wire loomed. Another place to be trapped, somewhere others must be trapped. The disembodied voice garbles out, but I see no sign of life through the maze of fences beside my path. I don't know what to make of corroded pillars anchored to the floor, and haphazard of tables broken, scattered, on the other side of the barrier. It's good that I'm alone, and I have some security in the rational that if I can't get out of here, no one can reach me.

I hold the camera beside my chin, while I check through the visor and fumble with the zoom. My eyes water as I fought to stare through the visor, it is terribly bright. I turn my head up, study over the long coils of barb wire, and understand why. Lamps. Blazing white, hot stadium spotlights. The spiraling haze stretched a membrane between my gaze and the sky above; the transparent tissue constricts and bends outward, plugging my senses into vertigo. I lean far sideways and squeeze my eyelids tight against the forceful glare of light hurtling through the fog.

I'm disappointed. I wanted to see sunlight, but there is only grainy, viscous air.

I creep along the fence, glimpsing through the gaps little by little seeking a body for the voice. The same landmarks are repeated, outdoor accessories and discarded lumber, broken picnic tables giving in to decay. I can make out some sort of equipment, not machines, nothing necessary. There are round ends stuck on poles, and bent metal. Everything is dissolving into the grungy floor, abandoned. Forgotten.

Yard equipment. For a moment I'm confused, I don't recount where I am for several minutes as I stand trying to understand what I have decided. Not exercise equipment, but I think it is. I couldn't believe Murkoff would allow patients to have outdoor activities, not here. There's too much I don't understand, and enough I decide I'm safe just not knowing.

The ends of brick monoliths emerge from the fog on either side of the alley, behind the fence. I take I'm entering another section of yard. The fence has an opening before me, with the door on vacation. I leave behind the grave, the water channel, and stay to the center of my path. Ahead, the fence thrusts forth for miles and miles through the haze. Somehow it is always extending, never ending. A perpetual cycle I am not mindful of.

There's a faint thud, and the voice again. "Twone-tree." Numbers. Infinity.

I pause within a threshold of the fence and lean off the bar, holding my head. A cracked bench is angled out from the fence, a pair of handcuffs rest on the splintered wood. I blink slowly as I take in details. Distract myself. Power. For computers. To run script. It comes back, the math equations. I put some numbers into the notebook, filled a few pages front and back. The scent of ink. The glass room. Wall flowers.

A clump of hair comes loose in my grip, and without support my body buckles sideways grazing the fence as I go down. I smell dust and metal, the ground is like a slate of ice. The guard, he's threatening someone. Power. Power for the radio.

The sign read Prison Block. Deep inside the walls, trapped. There's a way out. I'll find it, call for help. This is right, this is good. I can work with this.

I rub the inner crook of my arm across my face, smearing snot and tears into my brow. I stagger with each step, my head buzzing. I catch myself by the sharp net, the fence rattles as I plow into it. Pause, need to steady my gasps. Catch up.

"Forty." I can't decide where the voice comes from. I feel sick to my stomach thinking about it. There's no reason why, but maybe I'm trying to take in too much. I don't know, I'm far from being a scientist, I'm nothing.

I reduce my quakes and get my feet moving. One hand trails the fence, generating muted _clink-ticks_. It reminds me of my childhood. Running along a fence, tapping my fingers over the corroded threads in the thin steel knots. So distant memories. Innocent times.

"—been so long since any have been along our way."

"Much too long."

The harsh light dimmed by degrees, as if retreating altogether. The fog swirled and clung to my body, the cold breeze seeped into my muscles. I felt a prickling, a familiar sensation working through my scalp as I pushed forward, heedful of the confined path ahead. The voices, they were similar and deep, one was an octave higher than the other. I can't find the speakers. The see me, but I won't believe they can hear me.

"His journey is not complete."

I was wrenching at the handle of a gate when the voice hissed, very close to my side. I whip around, pressing back into the cold metal links and stare. The crosshatching net of a fence stood across from me, and behind it rippled a fuzzy shadow. The tall figure gazed back at me through the gaps in the barrier, but what sanity I yearn to identify in those eyes is absent.

"No," his voice is deep, when he speaks. "And many more hardships await."

"That they do." The first voice, softer. My heart twists in my chest, and my eyes dart about. Where is— There, not far from the other, but the barrier is between us. A near identical shape looms, dark and undefined in the blanket of obscurity. He holds an object firmly in his fist but I don't make out what it is; I only glimpse it as my eyes return to those near identical faces, fixed amid symmetry of emotion. I stare from one to the other, and they stare back.

"He has wonderful eyes," he murmured, at length.

Some of the twisting mist clears from my gaze, and I realize at once what he holds is a knife of some kind – the two of them – carry a long blade splotched in crimson. The one poised to my right palms the weapon, both scrutinize me with formless expressions, and eye sockets as gray and flat as stone.

"Aren't they?" the harder voice replied. I'll remember him, since he's the only one with hair

I feel my way along the fence seeking an opening, a hole I can crawl down into. My grip tightens on the threaded mesh when my toe hits a cold hard edge and pain immediately blooms wild through my leg.

The low voice sounds optimistic, as he says, "Do you think he would mind if I took them?"

"You should ask."

I turn my face down as I grip my foot and squat. Stubbed the hell out of it, I don't feel any blood, aside from what's already stained my feet. I shiver and suppress a low groan. The bright whip of lucidity rates how much I don't… me eyes… shit. Shit. There must be a way out. They can't get to me. No. No, they can't. Find a solution.

"What is your name?" I stare at the figure across from me. He glowers through the fence, his thumb rubbed along the blades edge as it rests on his palm. Dark fluid plopped to the cold ground, and across his toes. I want to believe it's water, christ, I want to believe.

"He can't speak," he presumed, almost gently.

"The doctor may have gotten to him after all."

"Maybe." For a span they are silent. The only sound is the solitary game, numbers flutter through the air. Ambiguous, worthless, sums that roll along a dark screen and never mean anything. Feeling returns to my foot, and I keep hunched beside the cold fence searching with my hands for that deep, dark pit. "Do you understand what I am saying?"

I nod. I don't know why, but I actually nod. My hand jerks back and knocks open a gate that I missed at my shoulder. I stagger through as the bald one – at my left – moves toward the fence that is still between us.

"We are going to kill you." His voice is graveled, to the point. He turns and begins following his copy away, AWAY!

While I dash into the opposite direction. Into a fence. A dead end.

It's a box, a cage. I cross to the back of the small yard, to a gate in the fence near where the patient had been standing. Even when I take note the heavy chains fastened between the bars, I struggle at the door. If I could squeeze through, they might not be able to reach me. God, oh god, they want my eyes. My eyes! Are they going to kill me, or just cut out my eyes? That alone might not kill me. I might still be hanging on, dying slowly. I can't… I can't die. Lisa, I can't die yet!

I nearly trample over the body crammed beneath the brick wall, his hand latched to the door handle in the building. I don't bother moving his hand, I grip his fist and rattle the handle but it is locked. He died here because he mistaken it for an escape. Jeezus, where do I go? They'll find me boxed in here. But if they're out there, they are out there waiting for me. God, oh god. What do I do? I can't get around them!

Across from the yard I stood in, was another doorway I had missed (ignored). It was wide open, but my sense of direction was intact. I'm certain they went in the direction that the open door faced. They were waiting for me, somewhere.

I could go back. Retrace my steps. There had to be something I missed, a ladder, a break in the fence I could crawl through. There was a window, couldn't someone have made a door? But why would they? That was important to note. There were already an abundance of doors – useless immovable wall decorations – why would they make more doors?

The small yard I enter into has little to offer, aside from a collection of chairs stacked along the brick wall beside another gate in the wall, open. I step back and examine the stack of chairs, jiggle them by the seats, but they are glued tight; rust frosted bars lay scattered in the corners, but are much too heavy to carry and swing. The four walls have nothing that I could lift as a weapon, if I came across those two. I don't know what I'm planning, Lisa, but it'll be better than cowering down and dying. I hope. I don't know if I'll have a chance in this bleary haze, weary as I am. I won't let them find me. The fog can work for me, the dark cloak can be my shield. Out of sight, out of mind.

Harsh light burns through the mist on the other side of the wall. I squint at the wall aflame at my side, and turn to the chain threads that open to my right. Along the fence is some sort of ladder, suspended on high metal rods; it takes a while for my head to churn out the answer. I know what it is, but where is the word? Monkey bars. Its exercise equipment, scattered around the yard. Something here could be of use, I'm certain.

But the bars or manageable equipment I could lift are too heavy to carry and swing. I keep looking.

At the far corner of the yard, a body in security uniform lay on a cracked board; dark blues and red shades stain his clothing, his torso is all but severed from his shoulders by a bar with large cylindrical weights at the ends. Flies spiral about, the dark insects work at the black fluid caked in his nose and eyes. The smell swamps my mind, the unwelcomed vapor of soured meat, left in the dumpster in the heat of a summer afternoon, its state of matter liquefied. I felt unclean, would never be cleansed of this. Never.

The door swings out into gloom. I hesitate in the threshold, my senses fumble to relay information to my muted perception. Absolutely nothing is available to my sight, it's like staring into cotton. Shapes flutter, a glitter of something appears and fades; I can't decide if the lamps bright reach cannot touch this side, or if something has gone wrong with my eyes. Does he ever shut up?

A _Whump!_ in the mist sent me back a step, but it's not near. Numbers keeps repeating a score, I must be close. But I don't know where I am, and aside from the losing game I hear nothing else. I don't believe I've lost the two, the idea is appealing but disappointment has a side effect of death.

I keep close to the wall at my side, the only surface that is clear. My sleeve soaks up moisture from my eyes and neck, I don't know how it's possible for me to sweat - my skin is icy and my tremors won't cease.

On the other side of the fence tables and pipes are slanted across the wall. I leave the fence behind and enter amongst brick walls, buildings on either side. On wonder if there is a door inside, but I find none – it would be locked anyway. A picnic tables waddles from the heavy air, a coil of fencing wire lay on top. Other features become more apparent as I move. Thin shoots of grass tickle the arch of my foot, and its contrast to the painful cement forced me to stifle a giggle. I wanted to retain the illusion that I was alone and very sane.

I swallow at the thick air. Ahead, the wet air dilutes under a high light perched on a fence. The gate beneath it is open. I sprint that way, bypassing stacks of copper laced pipes and soggy timber. The mist works through my wet clothing mixing with blood and mud. Numbers! The game is failed, you lost!

The edge of a table peers up at me, but that is all I can make out. More light twinkles from the expanse, my eyes pry out details of brick and the threads of fence. I run my hand along the metal frame as I step through the gate, and for good measure I check behind me. I forget the effects of the fog in the cameras enhancement, and am rewarded with sharp pain in my eyes. A thud clashes with the walls around me. I wonder of it, if the fading twitter should mean more.

I crash into the table. My shins fold under me, and I sprawl along the seat attached to the tables base. A choked cry lurches from me as I flop around, steading myself before I go tumbling to the floor. I should've been watching my feet. My cut leg brushed over the hot splinters. I press the back of my hand onto the scrape, and scan the edges of light fluttering around. My feet need some clean water. The tiny crevices in my soles would be soaking—

"We all must endure hardship," the deep voice says. He's in front of me!

I dive off the table toward a wall at my side, as he drifts in off the fog. The muddled slivers of light detail his shape in acute detail, but I see nothing of his expression save for his cold eyes.

"If we do not," he stops there.

The second voice glides away, detaching from the first shape like a splinting cell. It's the one with hair, speaking: "We cannot transcend our sins. We simply are. And that." He fades into a flat shadow as he departs, his destination clear. I gape at the duplicate figure as he positions himself by the gate, from where I entered. Missed them! How could I miss them?

He stalled his words. The blade slapped against his palm, as he stood there and waited, watching me. Why are they doing this? Why? I retreat from them, my back scrapes the course brick behind me. My eyes never leave either one for long. "Is the greatest sin of all," he concluded.

"An illusion," the bald twin affirmed. His voice carved through the supple vapor, and pierced my deluded expectations. "A hollow shell of our former self, as the preacher puts it."

I fall back to the floor curling over myself, hugging the camera to me. Its soft mechanisms whirr in my ears, splicing with the ever present dull humming. It recorded, eating everything I witness. When I'm gone, I want everyone to know. I want the world to understand what happened here, and I want them to ask the important questions.

"True that is," the other concluded. "So eloquent."

But what I need right now, what I crave. What I want to know is, Will they see? Could they? Would they want to? Or would Murkoff fight to bury their sins with the disease. Would they forsaken all the sacrifice and loss, for a clean slate?

They had forsaken me. Assigned me to burden their crimes, so they could coddle their sins. Killed me, yet I have clawed my way out from my grave to take something back. Not my life. What life could I steal from the masters of pestilence? Death. It would be a release, it could free me. But my misgivings wane. In the long run, who wins? Victors of war write the history, alter the truth of it.

Release would be too sheltered.

"I believe he understands." The tone was sympathetic.

But the speaker moved toward me with that blade clutched tightly in his fist.

"Then he knows he is not done." I look up to the one with the dark voice and the pale head, as he leans over reaching his arm out.

"Far from it."

I roll aside, crawling up the wall until my feet can take my weight. There's a dim portal at my shoulder, open. I stagger through, my shoulder clips the doorframe but I don't stop. The pain is fresh and new in my muscles, yet familiar and distant. I glance over my shoulder as I dart among the fences shooting up around me, guiding my path, narrowing my escape. Nothing with solidity exists beyond the tight wire net, only ambiguous sounds and disembodied voices. They talk to me. I imagine the plants whispers.

Grass shoots grow in abundance within the cracks in the cement everywhere. It's refreshing to my taxed feet, and I detect a minute piece of clarity resurfacing somewhere deep in my mind. The reprieve will be short, and it's a struggle to remain alert.

I don't hear them, and I can't see them. I pause in a bend of the fence and listen. For a long time I have only nonsensical mutterings, and my own confusion lodged with the unsettling encounter. My distress throttles my curiosity, and I begin retreating. As I slink away, my ears sift out the passive shamble of their steps gliding under the mist. They're not chasing me. They're following me.

* * *

**I hope the dialogue I pieced together for the twins does them justice. I couldn't bear to recycle content from the game - no fault on Red Barrels, they gave us an excellent DLC. **

**I also realized this chapter and its title are relevant to each other. And I was worried they wouldn't match.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Revelations which Rust**

Sharp grass blades nick my ankles as I run. The weeds weave through the fence on one side, on the other side, I finally witness the two in an unhurried pace, one following the other. It would be chilling enough if the two had dashed after me like the other patients, but this leisurely, methodical pursuit is somehow five times more unnerving. Apathetic, as if they already know the path reaches a dead end, and I am lost in the maze.

A pair of arms clings to the fence from the other side, on my left where I'm hoping to reach; sunken fingers, skin flaked back from bleached bone, latched through the netted metal lines. A body lies beneath the ragged appendages, but the red pool beneath the torso looks fresh. I glimpse these pieces and wonder of the other side, if the owner had been trying to reach my side?

My concerns are fleeting. The path comes to an end at a solid brick wall stretching perpetually overhead. I pull up short and listen, to an abrupt _Thunk_ and the pad-pad of feet close behind me. Or all of it's in my mind. I can't decide.

The sturdy fence stretches on both sides, protecting, strangling. To my side the gate in the fence is open by an inch. I shove through, its rusted hinges scrap and the underside of the metal frame screeches across the cement.

I'm startled by a face in the fog. A face that stares back, flashed through my eyes, but it has no shoulders. Briefly the face did resemble me, and I let loose a garbled yowl.

The camera smacks into my chest when I spring back, my other arm sweeps up expecting a punishing blow. It's nothing, just a… a severed head. When the initial shock breaks, I inch forward and gape down on the broken, flattened face encrusted with black. Morbid fascination captivated my troubled mind. The tongue is purple and hangs out over a crooked jaw. I can feel my brain seeping out of my ears like a molten liquid

"Shit!"

I'm vaguely aware of the gentle treading of feet behind me, all throughout the turmoil as I'm lost in myself, gawking on the pulpy head and the stains around it. I look up and am suddenly hyper aware of how open the court is, and of how every inch of the ground is covered in stacks of red, bare feet prints; here or there a violent crimson streak. Not far from where I have taken root, a thick puddle of black and orange puss cascades down, all of it spilling from the basketball goal overhead where a body is crammed through the metal hoop. Is there… a way to understand this?

"What a shame," said someone at my back. "He seemed… durable."

"I will have those eyes, then," the softer tone insisted.

I threw the gate shut, the whole fence reverberates with the collision of the metal frame. The repeats, the twins, catch up in their listless hunt. The nearest, bald, jabbed his knife at the tightly woven links in the fence. The generous girth of the blade prevents it from getting through. They are….

Stark, completely, utterly nude. It wasn't evident in the heavier vapor, but the court lamps flayed off layers of cotton in thick bundles, and I could see them clearly. They are nudists fantasized about mutilating me.

I twist away, my eyes already working across the court. In the distant shapes mill along the walls, vaguely. A scarce indication of life, of something left alive. I avoid the thicker pools of blood around the court, and slink in the direction of the huddles shapes. I want to ask if there's a door, but my tongues refuses to form the words. All I can do is stagger along and gawp at the large mosaics of crimson and pieces of people. The intense light punches through the mist clarifying the ground, this little piece of hell I've taken refuge in. It's ludicrous, my situation.

At the polar side of the court stands the other basketball goal, and strolling towards me is a shirtless figure.

"Spoilsport." Numbers. A losing game. I recognize his voice. Slurred, broken. His teeth jut out of butchered lips, his chest resembles a cage with dried leather stretched across thin ribs. I stop and fix on him, arms slumped at my sides. He looked more scarecrow than human. I don't grasp how he could be walking. "Shirts and skins or fuck off."

"I need you to shut up." It takes a moment for my mind to register that this was said aloud, with my voice. Cement grinds under my chest, the instant before I feel the blow. His jagged knuckles on my brow deliver a vivid eruption of white, and cold. My cheek drags on the gritty ground, my fingernails claw out struggling to move me, get my limbs going. My head hums, heated, but I'm conscious. Christ.

What happened to gooble gobble?

I crawl to my feet as he moves after me, swinging out again with his fist. "What did you say you fucker?"

The wall had one doorway, but a figure tangled—or tied into—a sheet stood there observing the scene as it played out. Benches lined the walls stretching around, like a regular basketball court; except the wood was old and eroded from years of waiting, hammered by spiteful winters, and drenched in summer heat. One section of the seating was occupied by a patient huddled down, and another stood beside him with a hand set on his shoulder. The consoling figure looked at me, and I caught his gaze as I whisked by with the shirtless aggressor on my heel.

I ducked around the tall pole of the basket goal. The patient shouted another venomous phrase, and swiped out for my face once more. I had backed away patting down my pockets, even my jumper. The camera! Where did I drop it?

It was in the center of the court where I fell. The patient that had traded gazes with me, was leaning down to pick up the camera. I dove around my pursuer's backside, but he whirled around and managed to clip my shoulder. I barely felt it as I raced to the patient, who was now examining the camera over. I stopped beside him, and watched the other side of the court as the two tall figures forced the gate open; the bent frame scratched over the cement with a familiar, grating shriek that pierced my mind. They stalked in at their customary gait.

"Promise a man paradise, witness him lie," one claimed. The bald one, trailed along the furthest wall.

"Promise a man death, and witness who he is." The one other was coming right for me; dead eyes focused, blade slapping on his palm.

My eyes went back to the patient at my side, as he held out the camera. I think he could speak but he chose not to, or decided it was no good to do such around the other man that was running at me. I accepted the camera without a word and ducked off; diving aside as numbers made another jab at my head.

The patients retreated back from the twins, but none of them made the blind dash for a retreat. That made sense, those two hadn't glanced anyone else's way; I was the target. I was popular around here.

I needed a way out, but the only other door was on far side of the court in the wall, where the bundled figure stood. He was restrained but I wouldn't dare go near him.

My paced slowed when the diluted haze in the far corner of the court revealed a gate I missed, two patients poised on either side of its yawning entrance watching. Both were clothed, but one bore the excessive scars from treatment; he was missing an eye, and the skin across his face and arms was wrecked with sores; the other was normal by Murkoff standards.

They were a group. Safety in numbers for them, I see. There was no reason for them to let me through, but there was no way they were keeping me here.

The one on my left untangled his folded arms and reached for my shoulder. I jerk my arm away— my shoulders were snared by the other patient, but I shove him off with a jab from my shoulder and stumble, we both collapse within the threshold of the gate. I was up first, scrambling down the narrow alley. They shouted after me, voices garbled and high pitched, sick sounding. I bypassed a gate in the fence at my side, and headed for the ladder fixed to the cinder brick wall at the back of the alley. I bit the Velcro strap in my teeth as I took the cold frame in my hands, and heaved up two steps at a time. I could see between my feet, two patients stood below and shouted profanities up after me – the one I knocked down and numbers. I don't know why they didn't follow, but I took it intermediate salvation and kept climbing. A lone butchered tone clung close to earshot, even as others swept around him.

Concerned murmurs. I caught that the lot of them were hiding, and were successful at staying quiet.

I climbed up onto a cement flat among high fences and more barbed wire. It felt depressing, in a way I was not familiar with. Incarcerated in this place, hunted, wounded. I took a moment to catch my breath and stare down on the curling wisps of toothy lead, the only visible shreds of the grounds below. I felt no remorse leaving the seclusion behind. I was high now, and there was no indication that the ones below would follow. Some of my bearings would come back, and I can see my immediate surroundings better enough. This was good, I can work with this. The main thing, I was up high… I needed to be someplace high.

A fist tightened on the front of my scrubs, my chest twitched as I wheezed. Everything in my chest ached, it must've splint my ribcage. Or, the pain was residual from when I fell.

I didn't fall, I was punched.

I took the camera and checked it over. The visor was still intact and sturdy, it had a few new scuffs, but it was still recording. The night feature was accidentally activated in the scuffle, and it took me a second to remember how to switch it off. A new battery was needed, though not necessary here and now. I took the time to change it out, and this gave the dull pulse in my head time to recede by not so much.

Some kind of large building was atop the flat, of whatever I had climbed up to. I examined what I could make of the roof as I slipped around its corner, peering into a window grate on each wall. The interior was some sort of office, or a kind of work station. Turning, I scanned over the visible level of where I stood, but could make out nothing at the furthest reaches of the mist but for a few bright lamps shimmering across cold lattices and stone wall. It could be a watch tower, but it seemed too short.

Around the corner was a door set into the wall. I pulled at the handle but found the latch secure. Through the window mesh of the door I could view the old desks along the walls, a few files scattered around, and another door open on the opposite side. The air seeping out smelt old, the way musty historic buildings smelled after the turn of the century. I can't recall when Mount Massive was first built, or why it was built. Only that it was older than I was, which made it ancient regardless of how old.

Sounds clattered across the yard below. Doors cackling, someone's distant howl – the patients from the court, or did these sounds originate elsewhere? There could be other survivors lost in the fog, desperate to hide from the murderous ones lurking. I thought about the patient that had handed me the camera, and reflected on his arms coated in blood. It couldn't be his. He thought I was a patient. Status was losing sway, soon the survivors would be going at each other.

The fence bent around and met the side of the old cement building. Someone had carved out the fence, turned it into a window. I hesitate from climbing through to first examine the bent wires, then the planks of wood that framed the opening. On the other side was more cement floor, and another fence. I reached my hand up and touched my eyelids, felt my eyeballs roll under the thin skin. The skin felt sticky and gummy, my eyes irritated by the dust I had crawled through. The dust was preferred to the mud and blood. So cold….

I stepped through the large opening and checked my range. I could go only right or left, to my side was the office still, fresh light spilling from the open door that led into it. I pause to listen on the sounds, a struggling voice hacking and someone sobbing. I could view only the outer layers of the mist swirling through the mesh wires, and spied yet more fences further beyond. I felt an odd sense of deja'vu. A field of fences. A world of fences. Was I outside? It was so bright, and murky. But not in the office, not quite. The lamp in the ceiling filled the small space with a warmth I didn't expect. I stood for a moment scanning the walls, testing the atmosphere. The muffled sounds of the world about my little island called out to me. This was safe ground.

The phone on the first desk was on its hook, but when I put the receiver to my ear it was only dial tone and the female voice. I set the phone back, and tried the lamp on the desk. It worked, but didn't seem valuable to the small work space with the overbearing blaze from the light above. I poked through some of the files, and found a few about accounts some of security had made and individuals that were reportedly admitted for PPSD.

_From: j. billings . murkoffcorp. us. com _

_To: __k. vigalando __.__murkoffcorp. us .com_

_Subject: re: "Patient" Samul_

_Kurt, we've got another one, and I'm not sure you're gonna be able to check it off as "Psychopathic Proximity Disorder."_

_Security guard all the way up in the Admin block is our latest non-patient employee to start seeing Wernicke's fairy tales. He was never directly exposed to the Engine, never even made it below level 1 in the building. It would be an enormous breach of protocol and security if doctors were speaking of the Walrider within hearing of a contracted security guard. And seems vanishingly improbable that he would stumble onto such an obscure mythological story on his own._

_It's too similar to the Dr. Samul case, or the others before him. It's one thing for formally sane medical personnel to fall under the delusions of their patients. It's another thing entirely for those beliefs to be... I don't know. Airborne. We need to talk in person._

_Billings._

I wasn't aware I was filming the files. I was flipping through scanning words and phrases, until the visor bumped my bruised brow. I closed the last folder and gazed toward the open door, and the fence past it, and the mist beyond that, an eternity to the furthest realm. As if I expected to gaze out long enough, that I would witness some dark mist sweep by, hissing through muddled air. For a while, the blow to my face had cleared the tendrils of decay in my mind, but now they were back rotting through my skull. Shadows.

They knew what was happening. Knew all along. I thought I was the only one that saw, but they knew. We used to joke about it, Galvin and me. Security would go jumpy. The recruits – there were a lot in the first few days – most were fine at first, but a few restless nights and they got real jittery. Back then it was amusing catching one of the shady agents freaking out about shadows. It didn't take long for me to see, that this was more than the crawling vibe in the walls. It was everywhere, spreading.

That thing. It was here, I had seen it. Waiting in the mountains. Walrider. Walrider. I keep thinking about the Project, what they were trying to do. Walrider. Walrider.

I want to say it was stress. Or, made it easier to see, made us more aware. But it was lurking, roaming. We'd catch a glimpse, a shadow in the wrong place. Something unexplainable. Those bastards, they knew. And they killed each and every one of us for the sake of 'containment.' They didn't take any chances, just made the suspects disappear. We weren't the sick ones. Couldn't stay quiet, had to say something before something… something like this… oh god. I did.

Fucked up so bad. How did Blaire find out? How did he find me? I was careful. So careful. He didn't need reasons. Anyone! Anyone that rubbed them the wrong way, Murkoff suits made them disappear.

The chair creaks over the floor as I stand, and move to the doorway. I peer out, taking in the sounds, the intangible cries. I see nothing through and through the long path before me, delving into thick fog curtains. The fences have toothy barbed wire way up along the top; though, I don't see why someone would chance climbing over the sides, and risk falling from the staggering height. Below, I make out little aside from top edges of barb wire, more fences, and maybe the dull glint of a light. It would be an escape if someone could get over the fence and fall. There were ways out of this place, everywhere you looked. Even the patients were very willing to escort you on your way.

But it's cheating. Cheating in the worst way. I've done my family wrong by leaving them, abandoning them in the wake of Blaire's malevolence. I'll come back to them, tell them the truth. I can't let Lisa raise the boys alone. They need a father. I can't make her do that. I can't. I just can't.

I edged around a corner in the fence, my eyes skimming on the wispy mist but never prodding deep enough to realize the definition of it. I felt the drying fabric of the jumper pull from my back, and my thoughts trailed back to faces staring back – dead eyes. No. it was impossible, it should be. But the shadow was… out here, somewhere. I can't think of a reason I should quit right here. I only have good reasons to keep going, escape Its grasp; none of which made me immortal.

Voices come from below. It sounds like they are below, but it's hard to tell; sounds bumble around in obscure patterns. The speech that reaches me has jumbled syllables; someone slurred through a rasp and muttered, "Shhh! Shhh!" I was cautious, straining to see over the edge of the cement at my feet. Was it the players, the losing game? "Shut up, all of you. We're not alone down here."

Other sounds rise forth. The whining strain of metal, and the twitter— was it pellets? Or needle pricks, plucking at the veins in my brain? Shrieking. Someone was shrieking from somewhere, I twist around trying to follow the relentless bawl, but the echoes clatter against every invisible surface in the haze.

"It's just what they want us to think. You're going to draw it. Shhhh!"

The mar, the shadow. Walrider. Walrider. They were afraid of it. I was too. I had seen it. Oh god, I had seen too much of it.

"Help me! Somebody!" I crouched down, but even with the zoom, visibility was null. There was nothing I could make out, just formless heaps of the hills, and the hard edges of stone and metal clipping through gray mirages. "I need help." The voice, it despaired me. I clasped a hand over my mouth, and I listened to the drowned sobs. I can't see where you are. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

I looked up as a thin figure zips into view, hitting the fence and bounces off scurrying in my direction. I jerk back upright as he staggers my way, arm out. I grab the fence at my back and clutch the camera to my neck, as his hand snags the front of my shirt.

The grip loosens instantly and his panicked breath grew fainter. I stare at his dark shoulder blades as the mist takes him. He looked horrified, I thought it was rage but it was only unrestrained fear. I wait, my head abuzz. I don't know what I'm waiting for, but it never comes. I unhook my numb fist from the fence and keep going, in the direction he came from. I expect to see a shape, or hear the low twitter of metal and friction in the air. What I feel is the tremors working through my body. Nerves, I tell myself. I'm scared.

But it doesn't make the hum lessen.

"Come back! You have to come back!" I'm not sure if I do hear the voice, but it's there. Pleading, anguished by ill decision. "You can't do this to us." Shrieks spill from below, cutting hard over the cement blocks that rise among the walkway I stand upon, safe above it all. Every few yards a lamp is fixed to the fence beside me, and the light helps combat the gloom and melancholy. It doesn't stop the terror drowned voices, those sounds of men taken by what has no reason. I can't bear to listen. I don't want to feel their misery.

"PLEASE!"

I hasten my stride, hoping to find a place to duck into; an alley with high walls. Strong sturdy walls I cannot escape over. Stop the hell that swirls around, a slow spiraling sink into the vacuum of oblivion.

"You can't hide!" The statement is not aggressive, it's a panicked warning. It's not directed at me.

A large edifice looms in the fog, dotted by a lamp at each end. It's tall, with a rail stretched around the upper level, and the lower level that I am approaching. This is what I've been looking for, I'm almost certain. If anything, it'll be a vantage point to judge my surroundings. I'm not debating over the visibility of the grounds, if I manage to find a viable path to the topmost railing. My attention has adhered to the figure standing at the rail above, gazing off into the haze; not directly at me. To him I don't exist.

That is what I believed as I move to the end of the path, before he spoke:

"He did not kill his victims," he said. I stop and stare up, unsure if I should respond. If it could be safe to continue now. He went on, "He only gave them the release they deserved, in their conspiring treachery." For a long time I wait. My neck begins to ache from the odd posture my spine is bent into, as I listened. The sharp breath I snatched up cut over my tongue; the air was wet and cold. He looked down on me, but I can see clearly by the aid of a looming lamp how murky and white the pits of his eyes are. "You go on ahead. Don't let them deceive you with false truths."

I don't understand. I don't know what to make of his words, what he might refer to. He's a patient, I remind myself. He can't be lucid. He's can be violent. But he's not moved to come down, he hasn't even budged in his stance aside from looking at me. Blind, he can't see. He has no hope, his eyes are dead; he can only stand up there and frighten off those that wander aimlessly. Like the patient I brushed with in the path, the runner was scared. Of him? I want to believe the others in the court were inhibited by superstitions. It was less real, and progress became an attainable solution.

The fenced in path opens up, my walkway continues around the side of a brick structure. A watchtower, a proper watchtower I think. My hand snaps to the pouch, as though acquiring the memories through a physical transfer. I have a mission to fulfill, and a group of people I can't stand here and wait for. That's something I still believe in.

I tighten my eyes shut. The pained sounds that chill me through and through, cajole above and below in a wretched hymn. Scared people, diseased sobs rang out. I shiver, and pull my arms closer to my sides. It won't help to look. I can't. I don't want to think about them forever wandering the maze of fences. I have to find a way in, figure out where the radio was. They said there was a radio, and that it was waiting. That was the only way.

I step between two brick walls, joint complexes of two buildings facing the other and attached by a catwalk overhead. The lower path I move on is a makeshift wall, with only a rail that faces a drop; the area below the rail looks familiar, but I don't waste time with an examination. The patient is somewhere above me, which suggests there must be a way up (and a way down). A ladder, or some stairs.

In the shadow between the tower and the face of a large building, two doors are fixed regarding the other. I check the closest one that's been left ajar, easing it open on my shoulder and pause. It only occurred to me that any room I happen to stumble into, could easily hold a survivor from staff, clutching a knife. I couldn't blame them if their first response was to stab me, but I wouldn't appreciate the act either.

The small room, or closet, held one desk, folders with nothing interesting – email correspondents. I didn't bother with the phone, but I did pick up the walkie-talkie. It was cracked, probably didn't work but I gave it a try anyway. I toggled through the different channels, listening as sounds from elsewhere crackled through. The other walkie-talkies that survived sent out desperate broadcasts for aid. Most of them were fastened to corpses, I'm sure. Ghosts talking. I had seen a few sitting out on their own, but having the potential link to an unfriendly didn't sit well with me.

Nothing came through. I took the batteries and left the small office. I tried the handle of the building across the path and found the handle stuck. Noises came through the door. If I leaned beside the metal frame and listened, I could pick out that forlorn howl of warning. Here even?

I wonder who the siren tried to warn. Who was left alive, and still sane? This side, they said it had electricity. The lights worked. I can't get in here.

Behind me, between the building and the rail quartering off the drop, stands a ladder. I put the camera in the safety of its pouch before I begin up, but dawdle at the first rung and stare up, up and up at the edge of a catwalk. He came from somewhere, didn't he? The man above. He was probably waiting for me. It was superstitions. Words scared the patients, they ran from the sounds in the fog. Threats were real; they had mass and made promises, locked you away for making too much noise. Not safe, no safe places here. Shh… shh, don't let it hear.

The icy rungs bit into the arch of my foot as I supply weight. One foot, then the next, my arms are stiff when I bend them. I keep my body close to the vertical climb, nearly hugging the ladder. When I reach the top, I move slowly out of the grasp of a large lamp looming close to the rail. There's too much radiance to cast a normal shadow, and for a brief second I feel almost warm, but the sensation is fleeting. The fog has secret ways of digging through the skin, and finding special ways to make you quiver.

I slip along the wall the catwalk curls around, my steps silent. I lean onto the corner and peer along the edge. The docile figure remains where he is, unchanged. In the watery light his outline is fuzzy, and his shirt appears unstained, pristine and white. He gazed off into the veil, beyond into what existed far separate from us, light and reason. Escape.

I wanted to believe he would be no threat, if only to ease my mind and shake off the tremors. But I know better, I had witnessed ways to die and be killed. It would require no effort of him to throw me over the rail and into the abyss. I gripped the gray metal at my right and gaze over the side, onto the dislocated lumps in the yard below; each amputated shape outlined by pale, silver light. Somehow, it looked much further and deeper the longer I stared, as if the tower had detached from the globe and was steadily rising into the cloud banks.

"Even those of strict virtue," his voice startled me. I jar back grabbing at the wall. "Find themselves on the receiving end of His wraith."

I decided this was either a stark omen, or advice. It didn't necessarily mean he was speaking to me.

I inched by him, my back plastered to the sharp corner of the brick building. I kept committed to the solid surface, until I was out away from him. "The only way out is by His truth," he mumbled. I froze and waited, the patient never moved nor looked at me, but I held my breath. "He knew. Billy did. And now we cower in His shadow." He said nothing more.

I checked over the side of the rail and confirmed that he was speaking to me, and not another wandering patient below. "_Blind_," I remind myself. "_He can't find me if I'm quiet."_

The top story was near identical to the lower floor. It felt completely open without the overhead bridge, the blazing halo of a nearby spotlight burning down unrestrained; the tepid radiance punched through the languid mist, and slathered the surfaces surrounding me. Two new doors stood at opposite ends, same as on the lower level. I checked the guaranteed impasse, and pressed open the door of the towers entrance. It was another tiny office, the window in the back was coated with mud and cobwebs.

The desk had no items to aid me, except – if I was bold – a sandwich sat abandoned on a wax paper wrapper. I took one look at the innocent food item, and felt my stomach twist. It wasn't even rotten, the sandwich looked perfectly healthy and picturesque, aside from a few bits torn out of its side and a scatter of dry crumbs. The sandwich's presence reminded me of something about the Chernobyl disaster, and things left behind in the wake of a catastrophe.

Even if I thought the sandwich was safe, I couldn't… imagine myself eating. Ever again. Food was a lost concept. I don't remember what my last meal was, I feel nothing. I'm numb.

On the desk beside the half eaten sandwich sat a smashed phone, a scatter of folders lay around and on the floor. Hard copy files detailing nothing relevant, and most were more of emails; the Proximity Disorder and further details about how it was beginning to spread.

Good lord, I didn't know it was this bad. But… I was seeing it now. It was out of control, whatever it was that was getting into people. It wasn't just in the patients anymore. Was it? The plastic walls, the ones put through the Engine, and the doctors in contact with them. Christ, I was there. They tried to… wanted to put me through it too. I watched someone from security kill a man. Why? I don't know— a violent lunatic or not, or a man defending himself. I didn't matter. It's getting worse. I could still hear it in my mind, swarming like angry hornets. We need help, we need it now.

I left the office and focused on the door of the building that loomed above me. The shriek of warning seeped through the edges, and hovered at my ears. I didn't want to open the door and return to more halls, more shadows. Slink back into the cage, surround myself with walls and limitations. I'm safe out here. But it won't last. Nothing good ever lasts.

Out here, outside with no high walls and no low ceiling, if I'm cornered I have an escape. I could get over the fence. If… the ground was far enough from above. The fog makes it impossible to evaluate options; it's a variable, always changing, there's a high probability that the fall will… end me.

I shuffle to the side of the rail, and gaze down through miles of motley ocean. I stare onto the poisonous burn of lamps accenting gray steel, brick, and yellowed air. No going back. Once I let go, there would be no time to reflect, no regrets. Just black. I imagined sleeping was the same, like dying. You don't realize it. You might not even think about it, it just happens.

The rail was wet and solid in my grip, my shoulders quaked hard. It was painful to stand here and resist. Keeping my fists anchored to the rail, was the only way I could manage to stay on my feet. Miles and miles. I could fall forever. Or fly away. Slip into the clouds and never look back. No regrets. Just release. Freedom.

I tumble backwards when my fingers tear from the rail. I kick away from the edge until I'm in the center of the cement slab. No! NO! I can't think like that! I'm not dying. Never! That was Jeremy's plan, and I am not going to give him that satisfaction. I'll keep going. My marital obligations have a higher importance over me. I have to be brave, for Lisa and the boys. I want them to know I fought, and I fought with everything in me. Even if it destroys me. I can't… they need to know some part of me was strong, and resisted the disease. I want that to be my legacy. Lisa should be able to tell them everything someday, and never feel the need to make excuses for me. I won't fail them, not this way.

When I finally do reacquaint with the door, my moistened face burns in the ugly glare of the spotlight above it. I hold the handle but pause, I use a clean side of my sleeve for rubbing at the dampness in my eyes. The weight of despair is crippling. I'm going back into hell, willingly. Or is it fear? Stepping through this door, I abandon control over my life – who ends it, and the means to how. I don't want anyone else to make those decisions for me. That is my final wish.

"_That is brave, indeed, Waylon._"

A feeble little hiccup gets choked off in my throat. I snap the door open and stare down a long, open corridor. At the far end people wink by, running and screaming. It sounds like the howls behind the glass, wailing in their torment amid dissolution. I withdraw from the sight and behold, at the same instant, a dark breeze flutters through the lamps yellowed vapor. I don't see exactly, but I know what is there. It is no longer confined to doors and plastic halls; it has found a window to slip through. No more purge gates, no restrictions that can dissuade its reach. Had it followed me? I couldn't have been responsible for its escape. I wouldn't be!

But in some deep, burrowed out pit of my heart, I did feel responsible. I found the window. I found the way out. And it had followed.

* * *

**Asylum Society. I think the other patients see Waylon as being completely off the radar, cause he visits the places where the Walrider is chillin.**


	15. Chapter 15

**Son to Icarus**

No longer restricted to sealed rooms, or walls coated in plastic.

No more dark corners deep enough to dissuade its search, no place to hide. Nothing.

I had seen it. Watched as it left that place; drifting skyward through the swarming black smog that masked its shape, its shadow. Why had it come back? Why was it still here? The answer was simple. It was not done with the place that forged it. It craved retribution.

The halls existed of voices strained, shrieks of terror. I move slowly down the corridor, camera out. Plenty of light held the shadows at bay, but at the sudden twitch I would have the cameras murky view active, and watch for death to finally catch me. The door remained opened at my back, my flawless contingency plan. It, like the shade, could wait eternally.

Eroded paint and walls of beige surround me. Ancient colors, calm colors. One high wall has an old megaphone attached, with the electrical line leading out toward a box in the ceiling. The box leads across the hall, back and forward, connecting the dangling lights through the entirety of the long hall. Electrical wire. The Prison Block has power, lights.

There's no evidence of containment, nothing to reveal the leech of Murkoff winding through the hall. But there is evidence of its people. Why were they here if Murkoff influence was not? Escaping. Desperation had flushed all these people to a place of light and hope, but where there is light there are shadows.

I creep beside a door in the wall, the only door throughout the hall. Three filing cabinets are slouched against the doors front, though it is opened inward by an inch. The floor everywhere is scattered with crisp papers and files, most of the pages are stained with glistening red. Possibly, from the body that the office equipment is stacked on top of. Him. He was a person earlier today. A security operative. He looked like he had a gun drawn, but that hand was flattened by a corner of the cabinet. I could see tiny white bones sticking out from under the red mess.

My attention snaps to the door behind the metal wreck, as feral shrieks lurch forth. I see shadows play on the high wall, and bickering with the aggressive movements of the large humanoid lump. I believe for a heart stopping moment that it is there, the shade is there killing a man. I calm myself when I understand. My mind supplies the no less horrifying truth. One man is killing the other, and the smaller shape is struggling not to be brutalized under the violent movements.

"Hold him still!" I almost didn't hear the voice at first, beneath the shrill peel of the blaring alarm. "He's thrashing too much!"

"Make it quick!" A different voice. "You're gonna draw them!" There's a new sound. I can't place it, but it's akin to a hissing whine. The door smashes into its frame, and creaks open on its dry hinges. I stumble back and nearly lose my footing over blood slicked pages.

Three people dressed like staff before the nightmare began. They're researchers from the lab, but their arms are coated in crimson blotches. Two hold a patient pinned to the floor, another is standing with a sharpened, what might be a table leg. They look horrified, angry, all mixed together. I… I shouldn't be here.

"Get the Goddamn door! Barricade it! Out!" Someone shrieked. The door snaps shut, but I'm already down the hall, heart twisting in my ribs.

Can't let them get me! I don't want to come for me! Preoccupied. Killing. Thank god, it's not me. Thank god. I don't want to be next. No-no-no-no….

I could barely keep my balance on the papers scattered everywhere, chunks of furniture. I try to distract my thoughts. No one was following, and I know dawn well why. Terrible sounds follow my mind – tearing flesh, snapping bone, sobbing – the rasping wail fills the halls. Dying. Everyone is dying.

I stagger into a shadow around halls end corner, and nearly kneel on a body slumped upright by the wall. My first impulse is to grab the cold corpse's shoulders and haul him back up, but sharp pin pricks stab along my arms and neck, and I whip my grip free. The body sags in the rich puddle that formed under it. I sit – cringe – into the small space between the body and the corner. My eyes roll back and fix on the bright stains trailing up and down walls. I can scarcely take a breath without that warm film coating my throat; it's not the copper, it's something else in my head, seeping through the cracks.

I look to the door at the corridors end. I saw people race that way, fleeing, screaming about Walrider's. On the floor not more than two feet from me, another butchered sack of someone that once was a person. I think. I have a hard time deciding how he died— probably the fact his rib cage has been splint open and all his organs are flattened into the floor under him. The blood looks cold, its dark edges thick. How long?

"The Walrider!"

"Run! Y—" The voices broke off into ungodly howls ripping through the walls, blasting through solid rock. Soon, the grisly bawls fade off, beneath the squeals and scratching that ravaged miles beyond the metal door. Eventually, that dims into nothing, and the hall is overrun by the monotonous cry of the alarm warning of danger, but never delving into the gravity of depravity.

It followed me. I led it here. It was aimlessly wandering the yard, lost to the murky fog. It found me. I lost it and it found me again. Was there nothing that could stop it? No more doors, no more… gates. The researchers worshipped the purge gates. Gone… oh god, all gone.

The siren sobs on. And under its cry, I pick up on the tickle, a delicate pitter tinkle of something rattling through my veins. In the vents, I said. Highways of escape, a refuge. It's in the vents too, it's found a work around. We believed in the safety promised, swallowed the lies like an antidote. Poison, all poisoned water. A pipe connects the two walls above me, and silt seeps down into my eyes as I gape up. It's searching for stragglers. I'm not here, it won't find me.

I stagger away from the noises, flee from the door that sheltered urban graveyards. I feel the cool sticky texture on my feet as I find footing, and somehow manage to avoid a body torn open across the floor. The lamp directly above cast tame shadows over a corpse crushed beside the wall. Everywhere I look there are walls broken up by red splatters, pieces of people and ruptured organs. The stuff that shouldn't be torn out of a human body, smeared up and down the crumbling walls.

I whisk by a gate in the wall filled with broken muscle, flesh, and a stairwell. Through the sirens bellow, I could pick out the soggy drips falling into a growing pool spilling down the steps. The next hall I turn into holds pulverized bodies, more than one person mashed into the spine and ribcage of another, furniture stacked and toppled over; there is a clear path I can squeeze through. The wave of copper is overpowering, I can't take a breath without it coating my tongue. My vision blurs on the noxious fumes of rusted metal, and freshly mutilated bodies.

The devastated skin gives way to regular card board boxes, overturned furniture; stuff that should be in a neglected room and not stacked on top of people. The body of a researcher, his lab coat soaked with blood from the waist up, lays with his lower half crammed up under the edge of a large metal crate filled with propane canisters – blood washed the cratered walls and ceiling. I can identify pieces like legs, a waist, some mashed flab of skin. Christ… I'm back in the kitchen. Back in the halls, being chased by the Cannibal. Oh god…. Red trails lead up the wall, ending at a bent vent cover coated in dripping gore. I lean on a clean surface of the wall as a wave of nausea ripples through me. Holy shit… it's bad. Gone bad.

How were they able to delude themselves into believing it could be contained? How could they sleep at night, while aware of what they were making? Was this what they wanted? This? I try and think, I want to remember those careless conversations from the hall; the lounge. There was no end to the aimless prattle. The belief, the excitement. Christ, do I want to believe I was a part of it? Somehow, I deserved as much of this as the rest of them. I was there. The room, the window, the man shrieking for help.

"_I know you can stop this! You have to__—!"_

No. No, I made it worse. God no, surviving but dying. I'm breathing too hard, gasping on air filled with corpses. The rich copper soaks through the cement floor. The sunken eyes in the crushed body are still moving, unfocused and gazing up at the flickering bulb. The light around me pulses and dimmed. I wonder, how can it get worse?

Then it's dark. I see and feel nothing. The air around my chest is suddenly heavy, dragging my body downward. For a heart grinding moment silence falls across the walls, and swims through the miles of corridors. It so sudden and terrible, I can't respond. I grope blindly for the furniture around me, but there are no holds and I pitch forward onto my knees. The cameras visor smashes into my face as I bring up the bright tint of the night filter. The walls rumble in my ears, and yellow highlights fill up the dark space surrounding me. A power surge. Harmless—

I jerk back from an abrupt crack, and witness a shape dart out of sight and into the wall. Door there. There is a door. My lungs take a hard drag on the pungent air, and I push my hands into the floor and rise. I don't know what it was I saw, some sort of man. It moved like one. He's out of sight, possibly not a threat, but this is nativity talking. Anyone able, would not hesitate to maim me.

The power in the night enhancement is suddenly gone. Where I stand in the moment it doesn't seem essential, but I can't stop myself from fumbling for the spare pocket for a replacement battery.

I keep close to the wall as I proceed, caution infused in each step. My free hand skipped over the rough surface of the gravelly plaster. A forgotten wheelchair has taken residence on my side of the wall. I take one of its handles and move it into the path of the door. I don't care where the occupant of the room is now, as far as I know he is somehow aware that I am here and he will spring out to snare me if I trip an invisible wire.

The plate by the doors frame is faded but I can make out the end number. The door, that one at the corridors end. The first letters are Comm., and I can think of only one abbreviation to match. I'm there. I'm here. I know where this is! The shade is on the other side of this facility, attracted to noise, but I'm galaxies away. I can do this. I can fix this.

"Get those shelves into the doorway. Quick!" The voice snapped with vigor. I heard the muffled clatter of heavy supplies, most likely furniture, as it was hurled against the door.

"It won't hold," another voice chattered. "Guaranteed brain death! That was protocol! Loony practi—" The voice cut off. Only gruff mumbles clawed through. "Brace that here!"

"Fucking hell— Chris is supposed to be a certified veg!" Someone harped back. "We got no gu—"

"Get it built up first," the first snarled. "C'mon!"

A table cart was braced before the door labeled Comm. I pushed it aside, and touched the door handle, but paused and listened. The voices from the other door continue, barking commands to each other, then, there was a brief moment that the two were silent.

"Long enough. We just have to keep going, find the ground floor, then find a safe place. Somewhere. We'll hold out."

They keep speaking, sometimes a sharp protest or the deep tone of the other voice. Normal people. Frightened people. I'll never know. I can't… make them understand how there is nowhere. No safe zone, no place beyond the dark reach of the shade – Walrider. Walrider. The Project name. Walrider.

I sniffle, and give the door handle a hard twist. A little murmur of relief slips out of me. The door slips open, and there is a somber patch of cool tranquility nestled within the room I enter. I study the green hue of the night feed at my face, and search first for movement. The anxious complaint of the siren ate through the timid scuffle of my feet. It continues to insist that everything is wrong. The door fails to block out a fraction of the banshee scream.

There's no immediate indication of hostility, the room itself suggests it was used additionally for instruction or small meetings. A chalk board stands across from me, its frame set on wheels. Beneath it, a computer chair with ragged fabric peeling off its seat.

The entire room has conformed to the uniform of the facility, as all areas abandoned abruptly to the passing of years. Desks have been tossed across the floor, papers scattered under a thin layer of dust. The walls are lined with shelves stacked with boxes labeled and numbered, and odd wires, the opposite walls are loaded with computer desks with the old outdated monitors as large as a house. Additional chairs have been abandoned, staring at the screens they were left to attend. The screens blazes white in the cameras enhancement, making me believe they are active and working. Even if they did function it wouldn't matter.

I turn to the only source of light at the rooms side, and a wall separating the main room from a control station. The door is open, but I can see a large terminal through a stained window, along with additional outdated computers. Most of the screens are alive with feed, and the steady crackle of electricity works through the thick plating. Despite the small surge, everything looks to have maintained functionality.

This is it, I know. Communications. They tried to take it all away, but I was getting it back. Little pieces at a time, enough to keep me going. It'd be a cold day in hell if I couldn't recognize a beat up, retro short wave radio. I can make it talk, make it work for me.

My legs tremble as I step forward. I catch myself on the edge of the terminal by the door, before I fall in and drop the camera. The plastic case creaks under my weight and I pause, believing I've heard someone whisper near my ear. This paranoia sent icy prickles across my skin. I turn and look around, check the far walls and desks huddled in the gloom, but I see nothing. I'm jumpy, still seeing shadows; a touch of PPSD. But I know. I know the truth. I'm safe for now, but I can't loiter. Had to be quick, but don't… don't get careless. Not like… last time.

A glaring lamp perched beside the massive terminal is generous with its radiance, but still, the reach of the light is frightened from the deep crevices of the room; between the filing cabinets shoved into the wall. I've never seen light so spooked in a place. But I can forgive it. I was frightened as well.

I shut the door to the room, and glanced from the steel cabinets stuffed into the wall, a desk, then set my focus on the terminal. Wiring loomed behind the dark radio, the outdated computer software ran hot, soft glimmers peered out from the knobs of the radio. Everything worked.

Most of the screens worked, too. They revealed areas I don't think I've seen in the asylum, but… I recognized them. Some clean, well-kept halls, trimmed with polished wood and sporting vibrant, colorful carpet. The square, stone countertop.

I swallowed. That was the lobby. The Administrative Block. I remember the day I walked in through those doors, from the warm mountain air of pine and earth, crickets called on the late evening, Lisa's soft hand in mine. She smiled at me, but there was apprehension carved into her lips. What had her so worried? The… the baby? She said she felt odd. Not bad, not sick, but… she felt odd. It should've been the first sign, we should have left then and there. But it was just a feeling. She felt fine. All day, all night. We spent… the night there.

My body sags in the computer chair. The old fabric endured years of neglect, wheezes when supplied my meager weight. I set my elbows to the bare terminal and grip a fist full of hair, my other hand holds the camera to the counter top. I sway, humming softly to myself. It feels good, reminds me of the old memories I'm sure still linger somewhere in me. I want to tell Lisa, it's not your fault. No one will understand, but I do. I know the truth. He knew. That bastard knew.

I snatch the receiver and set the camera aside. I need a range, a frequency. What is Colorado's emergency frequency? Truckers use it… its universal; I know it because I like to know those sort of things. Lisa thought it was goofy, but you never know. And now I'm here pushing buttons, seeking out the channel. A voice coughs through. The radio works. It works, but does it talk?

"Leadville 911, what's your emergency?"

My throat tightens. I need to say something, explain what's happened. How do I explain it? How do I lure the authorities here, when the entire region is restricted? There's an outbreak, It's gotten loose. Everyone's dying. Help us. Some of us, we're still alive. Trapped.

No, I can't say any of that. I have to tell them something more important than all of this. I press the transmitter on the receiver, and bite my tongue—

A powerful grip snared my hand, tightening over my knuckles until I'm withering in pain and jerk away. I don't get away fast enough before the receiver is torn from my grasp, and a crisp black sleeve flies into my nose. I collapse on the floor, my shoulder hitting a cold metal cabinet. I'm stunned, but my mind sharpens in an instant. I'm staring at a man dressed in a suit – a pressed and expensive looking suit. It's beyond anything I've seen since I awoke, I can only gawk as he lifts a metal rode over his head and drags it down over the terminal, the outdated computers, the key panels. He smashes the nightstick across the screens displaying long pristine halls, twisted corridors plagued by decayed walls, heavy metal gate, a jumble of shattered book shelves; everything goes out with a spark of embers and a bark, the surviving glass screens turn black. This is terrible, and somehow familiar.

A vivid image latched onto me – a spark, scattered wiring, and the bitter scent of burnt plastic. The screen flashed and blacked out. I fucked up. I— The camera. The camera is up there!

He's beaten the hell out of the short wave radio, by the time I've lunged forward and snared the small, gray device. He squints my way – stern face, well-trimmed hair a little disheveled. I don't know who he is, or what he's doing here. I have to get away from him. He's insane.

He's still hammering at the terminal, glass flying every way; tart cinder fills the small room. I shoot at the gaping door. Something shimmers in my eyes, and I recognize what it is a second too late. Pain splints my face, and the next thing I know I'm on my back. The man is straddling my upper torso with his knees, and the nightstick is cutting into my windpipe. Christ… shi—! My lungs choke on a mouthful of dust; I don't know if it's the cold edge digging at my throat, or his knees crushing into my ribs.

"Waylon Park," he spat. I'm staring into his gray eyes as he buckles forward. My knees kick at his back, but I don't have the leverage to upset his balance. I gurgle on foam, and he applies more pressure to the bar biting into my Adam's apple. He's trying to kill me! Jesus… he's killing me!

Cold surges through my ears and down my back. The pain. I'm astonished whatever bone is in my throat hasn't pierced my windpipe, but it's getting there. I can't breathe. "You couldn't just…." He clawed at my chest, and it's by pure instinct that I jerk that arm above my head, out of his grasp. He can't have the camera. I won't give that up. While he's distracted with stealing the camera, I try and loosen his weight on the bar.

He snapped his hand back onto the nightstick. My vision is distorting, the edges of his eyes fade as I convulse under him, my gullet gasping. I fight a losing battle, but I won't let go of the camera. Tears sting my eyes. I can't let go. "You couldn't just keep your mouth shut. You couldn't just… play along," he hissed.

I know who he is. The drilling pain in my skull is almost as unbearable as the scorching realization.

Jeremy Blaire.

My boss is trying to kill me. He's not insane. He's bulldozing towards his personal end goal, spared from the sickness that superseded the rest of us. He holds his objectives in the palm of his hand, makes it dance on a taut thread. And he's about to kill me.

"But you're done talking now…." He adjusts his inhuman grip on the bar and leans all his weight forward. My vacant hand clawed at his wrist, but I couldn't get my fingers over the bar! It's pressed into the floor under me. I spasm, jaw hanging open, throat parched and cracking under each convulsion. Air. Not breathing! I can't get him off! Dying! Colors swirl in my vision, hazing gray with each breath stolen. My toes twitch. He stares into my face, grinning. Lucid, but bloodthirsty and deranged – the word is psychotic. There's a special place in hell for people like him. But judgment has bypassed him, to swallow down my soul. No… god…. No.

"_Please_…_Oh please_…." My hands dropped to the hard floor. I can't fight… can't….

An ear splinting boom rattles the entire facility to its core. My eyes are fixed on Blaire's dull face as he jerked his head away, some of the pressure on my throat is lessened but I'm still not breathing. Blaire leans back, and my head tilts a little. Deep howls, I can't tell if it's pain or rage. More clamor echoing through cement, I can feel the ferocity of it bludgeoning through my overtaxed state.

I get an elbow under my side and pull back. Blaire shoves me down roughly, using me as brace to stand. He trots to the door, but stops in the threshold and turns back. He directs the nightstick at my face. "Do me a favor and die here, Park."

He practically vanished, as my vision wavers. I take a shallow breath and cough, trying to pull in air and spill out the hot froth that coats my throat. I roll to my side and drag my body away from the door. It's entirely possibly he may change his mind, he could return and beat my head until the contents of my skull spill out across the floor. That would be easy for him, Blaire is capable of any feat.

The room is steady, aside from the siren bawling with renewed urgency. Blaire has run off, but I'm no safer out of his reach. I'm still alive. I survived. It's… inconceivable, he nearly killed me. So close, he came too fucking close. Dead. God, he wants me dead now.

My head is off balanced and heavy as I struggle to right myself. It's a struggle to get my labored wheezing under control, blood is churning wild between my ears. A dry hack pops in my throat, and inflating my lungs is less of a chore. Breathing aches me all over. My heart thuds painfully, a dull film hovers in my eyes, but I'm alive. Still here.

The hand holding the camera quivers as I draw it to my side, and I carefully push myself to stand. My head swims through the fading impression of his rabid eyes, his white teeth filling my vision, as my consciousness – my life – faded. I see skulls splint open and elegant grates march through tracks laid out in my mind. Cold, steel gates leading down, and down; white walls stretching for miles, constricting my mind with their stark contrast to anything of color. Dream therapy. It was dream therapy. Too deep.

The radios gone. I lean on one of the filing cabinets and stare at pieces of plastic and tiny bits of colorful wire. It was a long ago forgotten dream that I had, all of the events surreal and figment of a horrible world built on a plateau of nightmares. I don't… remember reaching this place, from wherever I had come from. Somewhere out there I had run, only to find this place. There were no conclusions, just masking pivotal moments. Making a difference in this place was like asking for miracles and rubbing lamps. The answer was True. I proved it. Yet, Jeremy Blaire with his ever omnipresent aura of self-destruction and damnation has stolen it all away. I have nothing left. I have nothing left he can take.

I'm still paranoid about Blaire lurking, that for some reason he will be waiting for me beyond the door. I tell myself he's run away; gone off to fire someone else. Or, he knows a way out. I don't know why he found me, I can't figure where he manifested from. His only purpose is to curse my life and spit on my grave, he doesn't need a reason or rational; he simply is. He could've been following me. The idea crushed me. I couldn't delude myself into believing I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It doesn't—

Light blazes into the cameras visor, accompanied by a deafening _CRACK_! I jerk back and drop to my knees in the doorway. The camera in hand creaks on the floor, when I'm not gentle about bracing my weight as I sway forward.

That was a body. I saw a ragdoll corpse flop through the shaft of light, before it tumbled out of sight behind the overturned desk in the rooms center. I'm trying to focus under the obnoxious yowl of the siren, there's a sound. I've heard it before, but I can't place where. The soft twitter of paperclips, no, metal trickling in friction. Vents. I grip the doorframe in one hand and raise the camera, but I don't need the night enhancement. Plenty of light from the next room swathed the wall and some of the floor. As I listen it suddenly hits me, where I've heard that awful noise.

I was making the same wheezes a few minutes ago, when I was gasping for air.

Light saturated pale shoulders and a bare scalp. My mind supplied bear, a huge upright bear standing in the doorway as he pondered the room; body skinned raw and muscles exposed, open to a multitude of infections and rot. It took several seconds for me to work away my confusion, one portion at a time.

It was a man snorting at the room, bald and shirtless. Much of his body and his pants themselves were drenched red. As he crept into the room the soft warble of metal worked under the siren, and I could identify at last the glint of the chains crushing his wrists. He was still huge and torn raw, muscle and bone was briefly visible in his face before he slipped into the shadows.

He moved within the murk, sniffling, chains dragging. Christ, his head nearly touched the ceiling, and he was as wide as a truck. I can't stay here. I glance back into the room, into the small death trap I was caught in once. Nearly killed me. If I stay here, there won't be anything left of me to burn.

I dragged my knees up under me and crawl carefully under the shadows, until I felt thoroughly soaked in the rich drapes clinging to the walls. I lost momentary sight of the mammoth as he continued on his decided course, around the inner perimeter of the room. He muttered things to himself, phrases I can't make out – infection? Or was it containment?

"All subjects neutralized. Estimated time…." The rough voice paused. I counted each blast of the siren. He was absolutely quiet and for someone of his size, that seemed unnatural. "Fuck."

I huddle beside the overturned desk and listen for the soft prattle of chains. The noise clatters up around my head spinning, ebbing through the solid wood desk. Air knots in my throat, I nearly gag. Jeremy Blaire tried to kill me, he came so fucking close. Was the body thrown into the room his?

The hard snuffles begin new as the huge man picks his way around the room. I can't see where he is, it's impossible to convince myself to peek over the desk and look for him. Instead, I continue to slip around my little island and scoot toward the slice of light carving through the room. Focus, stay focused now. I cringe when my eyes fall on the broken corpse, twisted and leaking all over the floor. His head is twisted nearly all the way around, a ring of tattered skin loops around neck, and his body is bent at every unnatural angle. I stare at the lopsided eyes glistening under the light, and I am certain, I am terribly certain those eyes blink.

I want to scream out. I don't know what else to do. But I manage to clamp a mud caked hand over my gaping mouth and turn my face away. I can't let him find me. I don't want him to mangle my body and leave me for dead. No, I don't want to pray for death.

The harsh breath draws closer, so close I can feel it on the back of my neck. It amazes me how silent my movement is, scuttling over bits of wood and dusty pages. I blink when the light floods my eyes and use the back of my rumpled sleeve to wipe away the dampness on my cheek. The sight of blood soaking the ugly fabric alarms me at first, but I recall the raw pain in my face. By some factor or another I don't have a concussion, the blow of the nightstick splint the skin however. Somehow, I'm fortunate. Somehow.

I hesitate but don't look back; I can hear the hulking man somewhere behind just… talking to himself.

Lamps burn fierce and bright in the corridor, only one lamp is fixed on the ceiling in the short stretch of hall. The hall makes a sharp right, a few crushed boxes litter the floor, and some cloth, trolly basket sits in the furthest corner. A body lay oozing beside the hamper basket. One of security, completely dismantled. I don't know if my eyes are badly unfocused, but I imagine his fingers are still twitching at his sides. He looks fresh, god, how long ago was he alive?

A guttural sound cuts into my ears and a cold surge ripples through my skin. Every joint and muscle in my body freezes, but I somehow manage to move, albeit awkwardly. I turn my head over my shoulder, and see his mammoth shape outlined along one side by the dull lamp of the control room. His eyes and teeth gleam fiercely in the black pit, of the dead end he has turned from. He sees me! I'm squatting right in the damming light.

With a ragged snarl he lunges. His speed is impossible, it's incredible! I can't conceive how a man that large can lop forward on legs as thick as my torso. His arm stretches out, the coils in the chain catch the light and break the soft beam into numerous rainbow shards. In the gaps there's a lot of red, none of it, I'm sure, is from the ragged hole in the center of his face.

I propel my body upward, off my hands and shoot through the doorway. He's close behind me, I don't know how close but I can sense he's within arm's reach. The hand locked to the camera snaps out and snags the edge of the door. I can't pull the door shut, didn't intend to, but the hulking shape of the man rams into the swinging door and cracks it shut at my shoulder.

I tumble head over hip back beside the folded corpse by the wall. My legs haven't stopped completely, but I do pause and glance back. The metal bends and the frame cracks in the walls plaster. I remember the door pulls open the other way, but I doubt that matters to him. It won't hold.

Another corpse is beaten and in the literal sense torn to pieces; the parts of this person were left in the corner behind the cloth basket. I get on my feet and turn the corner, eyes flashing back to the door as it lurches out of sight. The megaphone bolted to the upper wall bawls and screams, calling. Maybe the siren didn't know the mara had escaped. The Prison Block could be warning of its own monsters set loose, murdering and seeking its own escape. I don't know. Can't figure it. The patients escaped a long time ago, long before staff began killing off the stranglers. They changed clothing, all of them, that was the only difference now.

Another corridor attached at the left, but at the far end of the hall sat a door wide open. An entrance as best as an exit into another room. I glimpse the corpse not more than three feet from that open door. The harsh clatter batters across the building, broadcasting that not much longer if I waited. For a moment I want to entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, the mammoth of a man couldn't get through. He's forever trapped in that room with the broken equipment, a dead end, and somehow I managed to save one person's life.

I don't live that fantasy though, and dash for the corridors end. I nearly halt in my tracks as a figure, clothed in pale blue uniform, cut the corner in front of me and makes the last stride to the awaiting doorway. He braced his palms to the door and looked back, and I try to fix him with a stare of utter hopelessness that I want to convey, my innocence and looming destruction. But when he locks eyes with mine, his gaze is hard and far from sympathetic. The door slams shut in my face, and I run into it. In desperation I catch the handle, twist the knob before—

Locked.

I struggle with the doorknob but it wasn't budging. I whip around when an explosion tears through the hall. I correct myself. That's no explosion, but it's damn close. A wet bellow follows the predicted demolition of the door, and I can hear the heavy clops of boots and chains grating on weathered cement.

When the mammoth figure charges around the corner, I've already leapt off into the intersecting hall. Dead end or not, I didn't get a glimpse as I charged through. That guard came from somewhere, I have to bet my life he wasn't going back to somewhere. There will be a way, if I have to make one.

The walls and ceiling are sparsely lined with the outdated rods of electrical that dominate the archaic structure. I whiz through, leaping over the wood table, and don't risk fighting the door on my side, pinned. My feet hit a rough, jagged patch of cement when I come down on the other side. I falter on my feet, there's sharp pain in my heel but I can't decide if I cut the skin or what. The mammoth man huffs laboriously as he heaves his mass over the table, he can about match my stride pace for pace.

There's rubbish and some chairs, and a black bag of garbage spilling its rotten contents on the floor; on top of it another body. The hair on my scalp stands on end; that body is talking and the hand, nearly torn from its shoulder socket, is reaching up for my ankles.

I dance around the dead man's grasp and dart around the corner on the left, blistered heels slipping on the silt laced floor. A piece of jagged wood flips up between my ankles, but somehow I manage to keep balance as I weave around a laundry crate and fly full force into a door. I don't expect it to be open, of all things going for me. I half expect the momentum and slamming into the cold surface to knock me dead out. I crash full to my chest on the checkerboard tile floor, and cough and sputter as I scramble. A loud _clack_ comes from the camera when the plastic cover hits the floor. I've forgotten I'm carrying it, but I don't give it much credit as I claw back to my feet and turn my eyes onto the sharp light slicing through the thick veil of the room.

He's right there in the doorframe, one hand latched to the metal edge as he shoulders his way into the room. "Contaminants… infection."

I whirl away, first slamming into a fortified shelf with my body, before I have the camera at my eyes and the green visor filling my skull with clarity. Heavy, metal industrial shelves, nearly reaching the ceiling, their contents are numerous; boxes, folded decayed sheets, and metal tubs stacked in every gap. I can't hardly see across the room, how open or confined it is. The right side of the visor catches a desk, chairs stacked on its surface. I whirl to the left portion of the room and light! I head towards that, as a set of tattered fingers curl across my vision.

My shoulder blazes with pain when I'm knocked into another shelf. I'm partially blinded when I lower the camera and duck aside. Words chant in my head, honest and painful words; "_I'm going to die. He'll rip me in two. He's going to kill me._" I'm still moving, following the cold metal side of a shelf filled with boxes and random crap, as he snorts and throws himself around corners to reach me. How does he see? How is he able to find me?

I hit a dead end and my heart twists to a halt. My withered gasps comes back from the frigid surface, hot and moist. I feel along the side of the wall, my fingers prodding for an opening between the thick shelves and the edge of the wall. Dead end. I'm cornered. Trapped.

"You won't surface," the voice grates at my back. "Not anymore."

I want to turn on him, tell him everything. I'm not a patient, I don't belong here. But I don't think it make sense to him. I turn the camera and the visor, catching a shred of the shelf beside me. The contents of the lowest shelf filled with boxes, cardboard containers that look outdated and rotten. I kick my feet under it and flop sideways, shoving my free arm through amd scatter whatever I can maneuver out of the way. Enough space, a small wedge for my body! Me alone! The boots are beside me, chains rattling and the stench of rot on leather is overpowering. Tears burn my eyes; it smelt like he wore the skin of his victim's.

I shove away from the foul reek, simultaneously a sharp pulse blazes through my eyes, and I feel his sharp fingers rake over my spine. I kick away from the shelf, out of his groping claws, and drag myself upright. He's snarling disapproval and thumping, charging around the barrier to catch up with me.

The door and its light opens into a hall, it looked like it was once a hall, or outer section of the room I was just in. I dart through, to the corridor beyond. I snag the handle of the door and snap it shut after me, cutting off another bark of rage from the figure and his brutalized face.

Broken desks have been dragged into this short hall and stacked, and around them large thick cables were coiled. I don't know what to make of the scene. The lamp from the ceiling was torn free and dropped across my path, though the electrical cable was intact and the light filled a small portion of the tight corridor. I couldn't see much of the uppers walls with the yellow haze; below shadows swirled in the corners, testing their boarders.

I climbed over the desks, and set my feet down on a pile of tattered cloth and rubbish. My body jolts at the crack of a door, behind me. He's not done chasing. I don't think he can give up. I turn my eyes to the shackled gate to my side, and the lean but clothed figure lost in the thrashing and fighting; his motions at the gate are repetitive, bobbing his head and fists fighting to tear the door out of the wall. For a moment I want to believe that he's made the sounds, that I'm mistaken and the giant man would turn away when presented with a shut door. I make up stories to make the truth more bearable, more believable. I don't believe half of what I've seen, none of this can be real.

But another crunch comes from the brittle barricade, and I in turn leave the scarred figure clacking at the metal gate clutched in his fists. He shouldn't want to be on this side.

Or maybe he does.

In the corridor stands a gate in wait, but metal bed frames and furniture was crammed over and into the fortified barrier. I despair at the realization I could not get through, I was trapped here until that behemoth tore down the door. I poke around in the obstruction, where the door was once hinged and locked. I criticize the tangle of bed legs, pull the camera a little closer to my face and reduce the black layers that merge furniture and bedframes.

With a bit of fumbling, I manage to push out some of the cracked platforms of a bookcase. The shelves fall out, and clatter across the floor on the other side. There's enough of an opening for my leanness to fit through. I turn sideways and I am able to squeeze through the formidable barrier. I don't know if it'll hold back that... patient. I need to get out of here, get out of this place and… and….

I've forgotten. I slump to the floor and set a hand to the belt encircling my waist, but I already know what happened. The notebook won't help. Nothing will help now.

I stare at the black and white checkerboard tile that greets my weary eyes. A low bench is connected to the wall on my left, my right extends out and widens. There's trash, thick cables along the wall, discarded cans without labels. Blood. Always blood. The thick stain on the black and white tile hugs close to the corner I'm by; crimson trails keep going, out of sight. The lights are spotty on my side of the hall, or room. I see footprints made with shoes, going the direction I came from. Jeremy Blaire. He could have come this way. It could've been anyone. Did that mean this was a dead end? I wasn't going back. I could try, if I was… well. No, fuck. I'm won't go back.

Across the hall lay a dead security operative, crumpled by an alcove in the wall. I stagger toward the light, I can't see where my feet are, but I feel lukewarm puddles, congealed plasma. I spring away from the stains, and into the inviting light within the small shelter. Another body is slumped against the wall, and over the bottom half of a pallet leaning on the passive colors of worn wall paper behind it. Red soaks the walls, red is slipping down light beams. There are two doors on the opposite sides of the alcove, one is boarded up with plywood, nails bent and jammed into the edge of the doorframe. The pallet looks scavenged, like they tore planks right off—

A sharp crackle spurs me into ducking sideways into the dark cloak of the shadows where the light does not reach. The voice sounds strange, formal and clipped. I take a few breaths as the words flow through my mind, but I recognize the melodic and formal clip of the enunciation.

It's the voice of a woman.

"_Attention Murkoff personnel,_" she says, "_an emergency evacuation is in process, please proceed immediately through the Administrative Block to exit_." Administrative Block. That was important… I press my free hand to my head and press the knuckles of my camera hand into the rough texture of the decayed wall. Where was—?

"_Patients and restrained are advised to remain calmly in their room until help arrives. Thank you for your cooperation._"

I adjusted my grip on the camera. The rough texture of the wall was biting into my fist. I focus on the subtle throb within my joint, and go through my memories slowly. It's painful, but I know it's necessary. There was something there, a flavor of a memory, a recollection flittering just at my fingertips. I said the words aloud, "Administrative Block," and accented each syllable with acute precision, as if shooting bright balloons down with blow darts puffed from my lips. Block. Admin. Where was this place? What was there?

It came back slowly. The rented truck. Lisa. The steps leading through the freshly trimmed lawn, trees fully enamored in summer, thick green leaves hanging off each branch. The staff outside keeping watch on the grounds, the people that came down to meet us. A man in a crisp white suit, inviting us in. Lisa was there with me, she came with me. Together, we entered the front doors into that place. That terrible place.

The walls peeled away, the chandelier high above dimmed, lights paling in the dark gloom of autumns cruel suggestion. Cool drafts, air heavy with dust, copper spilled through the halls and stained everything red. So much red. Walls coated in gore.

My breath lurches in my throat, in sharp and short wheeze. The vivid spikes spread through my brain, white membranes and grills. That dull rumbling in my skull, grating on my bones. The swirling grill squealing, gnawing into my priorities. For one second, I looked away. One second changes a lifetime. It hammer at my mind, the buzzing won't let up not one second. Should've stayed outside. Should've fled when it was my choice!

The elevator swims into focus, and I dive down, and down, into its cold clinical depths. Behind glass, men scream at me; they shriek, "You have to help me_! You have to...!_" Faces leer. "_Mr. Park. Are we happy?_" The scenes scrub my mind, thieving away precious little pieces. Mornings, after school programs, open house, dinner, late nights, excited shouts.

Focus comes back a little at a time. I smell nothing but filth and copper, the air around my head constrains my brain; hot and heavy like lead. I stare across the hall, at the crème wall plastered with bone and flesh, and stare at the body crushed into the floor, under the bright colors of light. I don't miss the red shoe prints stamped around the body, or that they lead to the door with no indication of obstruction, or departure. Under the edge of the barred door, red has seeped beneath the crevice. I don't know if it comes from the corpse I'm staring at, or if he has a companion on the other side of the door. I don't want to know. I'm blessed in my ignorance.

I step around the sticky puddle on the floor, and move to the unobstructed door. My eyes linger on the body and its… his brutal demise. The handle is cold in my palm, and spun loose in my grip. I push the door open an inch and listen for sounds, for danger. I hesitate a moment when I dare to ask what in blazes I'm doing, but quietly I ponder, and suffer at the threshold. The door is fully open, and I release the handle to fumble with the camera. I hear a minute scuffle as I lift the camera.

"Please, please, no," he sobbed. I move back when I identify the shape curled up beside the lone toilet in the tiny room. The echo of the intercom rings in my ears, and I almost expect the voice to chime out once more. It doesn't.

In its place I feel a charge, an unnatural tremor working through the musty room. I wait for something climatic, some roaring wave to sweep through and smite all of us. Then, I remember the man huddled on the floor. "I'm sorry," he hissed. "Don't kill me. Don't kill me."

I sigh, relieved. He thinks I'm a patient here to kill him. That's horrible, yes, but he's terrified of me. I should leave him to suffer his turmoil, but he might be able to help me.

"Hey," I say. "Are you hurt? Can you stand?" With the light blazing over my shoulders, I can lower the camera and crouch low. "I'll help you get out, if you help me first. Where's the—" I shut my mouth and stare at the puddle glistening under his knees, and stare at the small stains over his shoulders and waist. In the light it's very dark, it's hard to distinguish it, but now that I'm closer I can pick up on the soft glitter of the item in his hands, but I can't… my mind can't process the inconsistencies of this equation. Instead, my gaze slips from the stains, to the puddle, and into his dark eyes straining over his shoulder.

"It's too late," he says. "Too late. I don't want… hear it anymore." He's quiet for a span, and I'm content to sit where I am and watch him. He takes a sharp breath, and it causes my heart to spike. "You can hear it, can't you?" he burbled. "You can hear it. All of you could. Should've listened. Damn doctors, should've… they should've listened. Too smart." His voice begins to fade, and I can't see where his eyes are now. "Couldn't see forest 'cause… trees."

I don't want to leave him. It feels like it would be wrong or immoral, sort of like I'm indebted to him for some fucked up reason. I feel obligated to wait with him, until he stops muttering about the doctors and the terrible things he did. I don't want to feel pity for him, but it's hard not to. The security agent, the bat, whatever he is now; he's so broken and so near his end. He's invited his fate without contest. I don't want to witness another man's death. I want to escape it, everything that is buried here and festering in the walls and ground. He lost himself to the whispers.

It could be impossible. I feel as if I have absorbed too much of the air, of the pain; the vibrations and the lies. I don't want to stay here, get lost in it. If I'm not careful, I could join the doomed before my clocks worn and run down, as my… my father used to say things like that.

The law of this place has been shirked for the sake of research and damnation, and we will suffer for it.

* * *

**I noticed a few things about Mr. Park. One) someone always winds up choking, or beating the hell out of him. Two) People are always breaking his shit.**


	16. Chapter 16

**The Valley**

Trees.

They surrounded our new home – tall dark wooded sentinels guarding our property from the main road, their low hanging branches barely scrapped out a thin barely noticeable pathway that escorted us back to society. We were spirited away from the world, isolated in nature, with the privacy we deserved. No one braves the path, except my family. I continued to work online at my leisure, and Lisa had a job in town that she only showed up to three times a week. The lawsuit rewarded us well, and every day I tell her it was worth it. Lisa wasn't certain of this. She worries about me, and I can understand this. What was the phrase? There's no such thing as a free lunch. The lawsuit didn't nullify all our problems, but it fixed a few.

Most nights I don't sleep through. Usually nights when the house is inconsolably silent, and the halls murmur with a sentience that is reserved when sanity and rational has abandoned the healthy mind. I can get by on sleeping through most the day, while the boys are at school. But the nightmares still find me; they manage to track me back to my warm bed and lurk in the shadows, waiting for a twitch, a blink. I mumble to myself, insisting what is there cannot be – I left it all behind, I swear. I'm recovering.

And these haunted fragments laugh. They shriek and bellow through the tissue paper of my sanity, because they know they won a long time ago.

This time I wake up and the house is in chaos. I'm sedated by the dream, and Lisa is shaking my arm trying to drag me from the bed. I ask, "What? What happened?" But the words are far from coherent. Was it me? Did I do something?

A pulse of blue light envelopes the bedroom window, and I see the wild flicker in Lisa's eyes. She says something, but I haven't grasped the words. "The boys! —their room!" She says more, but the words are obliterated in an earsplitting boom.

It takes no further prompting to drag me from those warm covers. I tear by Lisa, and into the swaying hall. Thunder ignites, mountains explode - the rain hammers against the roof and windows. The water has crashed into our home, invaded the bedroom of my children. I shove their door open fully, in time to see the tree branches recoil with a wriggling shape poking through soggy leaves; another blast of light reveals the tangled sheets pieced by the branch ends.

"No!" I shriek. The ripping wind cuts over my face and nearly throws the door shut on me. "No-No-NO!" I can't see yet if both boys are gone, if one is safe or if all hopes lost. I lunge across the room and climb onto the wood splintered frame, of what once was a window. The wind bellowed and thunder crackles; following the calamity is a wild vein of light bleeds across the sky. I see my youngest son far out of reach, his colorful cartoon sheets are disappearing into a large knot in the tree. The tree is eating my son!

At my back, Lisa is screaming and grabbing for my elbow. We're two stories up, the tree stands higher. I shrug her off and climb out from the window; my hands slick with water, the oily branches squirm in my grasp. I don't have myself anchored, but I'm already scaling higher.

"I have to get him! He's going fast! If I don't reach him! If I don't—" My fingernails dig into the pliant bark, and it quivers like blood soaked flesh. My hands come back red as I drag up, towards the little bundle in the trees. Lisa screams on, I can't make out what she screams about. I try and assure her I can do this, I'll get our boy back. But more of him disappears by the second.

In the leaves I see faces. Broken shapes, leering eyes sunken, torn flesh and jagged teeth. The tangle chatters like the static rustling in muscle, the fibers of my skin burst. A blade tab of light sears my skull, cold water blinds me - blinds me like hot viscous mud. Pixel patterns saturate the sky, stretch apart and expand in a vibrant explosion of white. I lose my grip on the sodden bark and fall. Lisa wails, I can hear her at first, but her grief stricken howl is overpowered by the whirring of the tree. The tree hums a song of some kind, it's almost as lovely as the cacophony of noise churning between my ears.

I jar awake, and stiffen. The soft warble continues, bobbing on the cold air gently, serenely. My body convulses, I can't resist. I fear that I'm damaged; the strain has been too much, and I can no longer run or hide. But as I lay on the dusty tiles, my muscles begin to relax. I tighten my fists and listen to paper crinkle under my knuckles. My palms press into the sticky surface of the… the camera. I know where I am. And I know too much.

The nightmare is still happening. I got away, but it dragged me back to the asylum. Where I belong. I… no, that's wrong. I don't belong here. They did this to me. Murkoff, Jeremy Blair.

The radio is gone. He killed it. I can't contact help. Can't tell Lisa it wasn't her fault. Lisa….

I sit up and press my back into the wall. I'm partially in the light, partially in the shadows. It comes back, a little quicker this time. I had to run, I got away. The radio is gone, it was the only way to get a voice out. Only way… call for help. But I'm alive, still in one piece. I breathe out a small sigh on the musty air, something close to relief. I hear the soft off-tune trickle of the voice, but I see no one. No one but corpses, blood soaked; the hall was empty.

I sit for a short time, listening to the distant trill of the sirens persisting – unstoppable reminders. A message repeats in my head, bits and pieces at a time; out of order segments. Restrained stay put. Staff evacuation. Patients…. Evacuation through the Administrative Block. I wonder if the emergency escape is a current route, or if it would matter.

Slowly and with great care, I work my way to my feet. The wall provides support, and I use it to guide my shaking steps as I inch along the corridor. It skitters through my head, some resilient scraps of humanity tethered to my soul. I remember the man in the closet.

I glance back, fleetingly, but I can't dredge up the concern or sorrow. My fingers trail off white walls, slick with red streaks. Lockers pass on my side, and I almost stop to go through the gaping, and evidently empty containers. My feet keep moving, and I leave behind broken bodies, splint ribcages, the glassy eyed stares - I don't make eye contact.

Pressed onto my back, I get a sense of this presence, like each body I overlook would stand up on their bloody legs and saunter off. They drop out of existence, like a part the actor plays has been fulfilled and they are ready to go elsewhere and resume another piece of hall decoration. I don't look back. I don't want to see these tattered sacks of flesh poised upright or in the process of rising. I don't want to incur their attention and meet those vacant stares. I can't do that.

The preoccupied hum is there. I turn a corner and meet where the checkerboard tile ends, the side of the corridor passes onto a gate, where slivers of light mingle in the many small gaps of wire. I move closer, angling the camera beside my neck. Beyond the gate the corridor is crumbling, red streaks accent the bland colors of walls; diluted light burrows through my eyes, and the stains sweep out beneath the lamp.

Blood. It's smeared on the walls; the floor is drenched in the thick colors. I see bodies. The nearest corpse is propped up on the wall, across from a bucket. Crimson globs stain the floor around the bucket, glistening beads roll down its dingy sides. The door slides open when I try the handle. It's only when I've taken steps forward, that I realize where the delicate hymn rises from.

A blotted figure stands beneath the lamp, right in front of me. As I watch, the figure moves his arm across the wall, through a trail of red. It can't be, and I don't want it to be so, but it doesn't change the fact that all of the red – he's using the fresh spilt blood to mark the wall.

I stagger back, the door whams into its frame behind me. The vivid clatter elicits no reaction from the man, he continues with his purpose as his somber rhythm swaddles my eardrums. Carefully, I inch towards the lone man. Directly behind him, and I have no evidence to fortify my suspicion, but it might be a doorway. He's standing in front of an access that could lead out of here, or far from this particular area. It could lead anywhere in the world. He's distracted, oblivious to the dangers.

His gaze slides off the inscription, and his hum ceased instantly. He takes a shallow breath, and says, "Another poor soul. Don't be afraid, you're doing His work." I shuffle away, the camera pulled tight to my chest as I stare at him. "Whether you know it or not." With that final statement, he returns focus back on the eroded cement wall. The off key hymn resumes, as his fingers continue in their motions. Up, down, and sideways to cross the red slash. This motion is repeated over and over.

Whom does he speak of? God? God, here? Or some higher calling? A greater power or unimpeded force I can't hope to comprehend in my meager existence, in this façade of an asylum. He seems to know what he's doing.

I watch him work, his slow precision. I'm certain the line doesn't need to be that thick, but I probably don't know much about the skills of finger painting. My boys are probably experts with that talent. I wouldn't… I think they're too old for finger painting.

The dream still has me. It spreads icy threads through my veins. I press a hand to the wall and lean over; my other hand tightens on the camera. They're safe I tell myself. Safe and far away from here. Not here, thank god… far away from me.

I move aside as the murmuring 'priest' shuffles over to the overflowing red bucket. As I watch, he dips his fingers into the surface, and gets his digits and palm well coated before he returns to the section of wall, where he works. Dark dots splotch up the floor at the toes of his matted black slippers, thin syrupy lines and globs fall from his other hand and stain the waist of his robe; the black hides all evidence of the crimson staining.

I can't figure what he means to represent, but it feels intrusive. Like the shapes that flutter behind my eyes, scattered in my head. Tinged white and gray, folding outward and collapsing inward, a raw perversion of laws and motion. He means well, but he doesn't understand. None of us understand. We built it, and now it exists to kill every last one of us. How can we grope for anything in the dark reaches of this pit, when we forsake our very humanity in the name of curiosity? We've sinned in the sake of hunger, to satisfy insatiable desires that need no pacification. We did it, all of it, and we knew better.

"_Somebody who looks as much like a priest as this place looks like as an asylum, writing instructions on the wall. Talking about God. Tells me not to be afraid._

_How was I ever a part of this inhumane bullshit greed-driven moral genocide? The monsters Murkoff ripped from tortured minds, the lengths their jack-booted business school worms will go to protect it. Their own men slaughtered. I've never prayed in my life, Lisa, but if some small-minded interventionist is listening, kill Jeremy Blaire before I die. Sanity and avarice. There's no pain he doesn't deserve._

_There is no radio. No hope of reaching the outside world. Only escape._"

I kneel beside the bloody researcher, who must've fed the bucket. I can't tell how death became him. His once white coat is stained in layers of red, and tears are present all across his shoulders and legs. I have suspicions. I should know, but I don't want to. I want to forget again, leave it behind, shrug off the restrictions in the past that damned and salvaged me. The gnawing pain works through my skull. I pause my writing and let the peak of it subside, but I can't get an edge. I'm sick to my stomach. My writing has gotten worse, and I feel the edges of tears at my eyelids. I'm safe here with the priest, but I know the reprieve is false; smoke and mirrors. I sit back and watch the man longer, his next letter takes shape and deepens against the stark, beaten wall. Who is this for? Who here could read this and understand?

Down, down, down.

The notepad is shoved back into its pocket. I take up the camera and rise to my feet. Carefully, I step over the ankles of the body. The fresh sensation of blood oozing between my toes rattles my spin with a violent shiver. There's no safe way to reach the gate, if I don't want to offend the man scribbling on the wall. The gate beside the corpse is open, the metal door pulled back revealing the dark handrails, and cold gray steps spiraling downward. I can make a plate low on the wall above the lower landing, marking an area or destination somewhere as an obscure A. I'm not comforted by the red stain shaped in the likeness of an arrow, directing up along the rising steps.

Done, Down down. Down to a secret passage that would lead to better venues? I doubt it.

I jerk at the clammy grip that melts over my wrist. I fight my instincts not to wither and drag away, as my eyes turn to the pale face now fixed on mine. A soft click is audible only in my ear, as my jaw clenches; I'm certain I've somehow cracked a tooth. The priest gazes into my eyes.

"I'm… uh," I began. He holds up a hand that flashes red under the lamp, this hand he directs to the dark pit in the floor.

"Nothing is there for you, my child," he whispered. I stop trying to steady my racing heart, and focus on relaxing. My eyes flick over to the broken floor, the massive hole drilled in five feet of concrete. How? "Yours is there."

His hand was ice and his grip merciless. He wouldn't remove his hand until I began inching toward the hole. "Yes," I said. "I'm sorry, I didn't… didn't see." I looked one more time to the open gate, uncertain, before I turned fully towards the ravenous black hole. I don't know what made it or how, the only clear fact is that it dropped into the bottom floor.

Hi hand released mine, and at last his eyes swung back to the wall. "May He watch over your travels," he says, as he guides his finger along the red lines, "and guide you safe passage to your penultimate fate."

I say nothing to draw his attention. A strange smirk carves through his flabby skin; he is there but the crucial parts of him, the parts that think and reason are not.

The far end of the corridor is overtaken by dark shadows. I bypass my intended path, and turn the camera to the end of the corridor. Only a door huddles under the shadows, fortified by large, bulging nails and thick boards. I return my attention to the jagged concrete at my feet, and lower down.

Down, down, down.

The soft hum of his voice fades off as I plop onto the icy cement below, and I take instant satisfaction in this. I stand in a short corridor lit by a lone lamp, flickering. Beside me stands a gate, padlocked, but I see the section card and a familiar red arrow. The far end of the corridor ends at an arch, the vibrant words glean within the threshold EXIT. I back away, and move towards a door left ajar. I pause in my steps and clasp the camera between my hands, up under my chin. The hall echoes with distant sounds; I'm certain I heard a scream or moan, a soft sound that whispered off the walls. I'm never alone.

I put my knuckles to the door, and grip the handle. The door eases open with a soft whine, and I'm within a room with sparse light, the back is overwhelmed by dark shrouds and glittering bars. Directly to my right is a desk, a computer monitor had survived the storm that had trampled through; folders scattered, overturned chairs. I turn to the bright side of the room, secluded by a gate; within stands a row of lockers, most open but empty. The air of the room reeks of urine, everything is foul, all of it contaminated. I begin to move towards the lockers—

I twist away from movement in the corner of my eye. My hip grazes the desk edge, and on reflexive I cringe down. Black shapes flutter behind the bars, spitting and barking like dogs. Locked. They're locked in. I can't tell how many there are, not in the dark. I pull the camera away from my stomach and search with the night filter.

"No more sickness! No more nightmares!"

The grainy green clarifies the danger. Three - no, two, only two behind bars. They thrash with the doors, generating echoing clatter ad clanking around the peeling boom of their accusations. The siren hails through the madness, rekindling the dormant state of hovering doom. Abandoned. The intercom message insisted the staff to abandon the restrained.

"I'm not the sick one!" It's a holding cell. Am I still in the Prison Block? They're trying to get out, but the heavy steel doors hold.

"Get out of my blood!"

The contained patient in the right cell is much more violent, tugging at the bars and occasionally reaching through at me. "You lying motherfuckers! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

"I'll call the Walrider!" I stare, my breath wheezing. Walrider. He said Walrider. Could he? Did any of them have that capacity? If you call it, will it come? Be quiet. Be quiet, you'll draw it! "You filthy piece of shit, come here!"

The cells are secure. They can't reach me. I'm safe. They can't get out. I'm not assured, and I can't stay. My hand brushes over a pamphlet of papers, I grab it from the desk and hold it over my shoulder as I dart along the wall and out the door. I heave the door shut after me as I exit the room, and the raging voices within are cut muted by the entirety of the asylum that stands between them and I.

"You think you're better than us!" The fading cries dissolve at my back. "You wait! Just you wait."

"Come on! You want to… you want to look at me! Look at me! You sick fuck!"

Abandoned. They left them here to die.

I missed the purge gate, when I dropped into the hall. It stood across from the padlock gate; cold, inactive, compromised, and as dangerous as the threat the plastic walls once quarantined.

I recoil from my own shadow, and bark a ragged cough into the folder pressed over my face. God damnit! Still jumping at shadows. I take a step and work on shaking out the tremors in my skin. I'm still holding a file from the room. It's damp, a little dusty. I kneel under the light and unfold it, flipping through various email transactions from an Executive Rick Trager and his correspondents. I hold the camera along my palm, the bright lens facing the papers as I idly probe the black and white confessions. A lot of talk was about profits from committed patients, and medical expenses and short cuts. The man had a jovial manner of writing that made my skin twitch. One note caused me to stop mid scroll.

"_From: j . blaire murkoffcorp . us . com_

_To: __r . trager murkoffcorp . us . com _

_Subject: false pregnancies / real profits_

_Rick,_

_Fun hitting the greens last week, we should make the drive more often._

_Was reviewing some old test records from the early days of__Project Walrider__and something sparked my interest. Were you following the project back in 2010? Apparently we had issues with female employees experiencing psychosomatic pregnancies, something to do with how the__Morphogenic Engine__interacts with the immune system? (All Greek to me. Am I right?) It was more often fatal than not, and these were employees not patients, so a little harder to sweep under the rug. But..._

_The Morphogenic Engine activity in these ladies' marrow was off the charts. And these are women who were never even exposed to additional hormone therapy. Now I don't know PPM from a kick in the teeth, but I can read a spreadsheet, and if the projected profits from PROJECT WALRIDER are half of what they say they are, I've just got one question:_

_Why aren't we performing experiments on women? God knows mental illness is an equal opportunity affliction. Seems unethical to pass up on such a potential windfall._

Sincerely,  
_Jer"_

A follow up of the female staffs miscarriages. I remember that! I physically repel myself from the little blue folder as if it had bit me. That fuckin creep! Wanted to experiment on women! Lisa wasn't enough for him! Lisa! My poor, gentle, strong Lisa. They don't get it. It wasn't her fault. It was…. Blaire needs to die. I don't care how it happens – an unfortunate accident – there's a whole metropolitan of unstable people willing to do the deed. They know Blaire. They should! I know him.

It's a whole minute later, before I realize what I'm doing. Scraps of paper lay scattered at my knees. I go at the folder, dismantling it word by word through my fingers; I crush wadded chunks into the foul floor, soaking up silt, discolored water, and whatever else I'm kneeling in. I don't want to stop, this is the most productive I've been all day.

The folder is obliterated. It's not a folder anymore, it's mush. I take a few minutes to collect my breath, wipe away some of the moisture in my eyes. There's dust, the light burns my skin. Blearily, I blink at the corner ahead. There was sound around the edge, I thought I heard a voice once I'd gone still. It could be the guy above, humming. Someone was talking.

Not far from where I'm knelt stands a metal gate, latched by a heavy padlock. A patient goes galloping down the spiraling steps muttering loudly, and happily. Despite how weary my eyes are, I can still deduce that the priest person is following the patient somewhere; he's in no wild hurry to catch up, and neither of them notices me. I take a last look at the large hole in the ceiling, the floor above me. Anywhere far from the priest was best for me.

I remember to grab the camera before pushing myself upright. The voices stay with me, and get louder as I approach the edge of the wall. I set my hand on the icy cement and lean close to the corner. The sounds of screaming, abandoned prisoners fade at my back. There are other people hiding.

The corridor is open and takes a left, towards lockers; a broken picture hangs on the wall. There's light from a bulb in the ceiling, and I see the uniforms. A person steps through a cell gate boxing in the wall. I move out more from the doorframe before it hits me. Security will kill me. There's two one them, and I've let one see me.

He spies me before I've had a chance to duck back. I see the whites of his eyes, his face contorts and he bares his teeth. There's nothing but terror in that expression, and I have no idea what he'll do.

"Oh god!" He lunges through the gate and reaches far over, out of sight. A whining squeal echoes against the walls. I stagger forward as a clunky metal container – a large cabinet – crashes over the gate. "One of them's coming! It's not even human anymore!"

I stand in the dim shadows as their foot falls fade off. His voice is joined by his companion, begging him to run faster. To the Exit.

A grasping dread weighs my feet in place. Were they… They can't be talking about me. They were describing someone else, someone…. They lost their minds in the chaos, were hallucinating shadows; the treatment is still spreading. I don't want to know. The truth will kill me. Spreading it… nearly did.

The rapid pulse of my heart vibrates in my chest. I look at the Velcro strap locked over my hand, and the camera there; the pale gray case is scratched, dark lines visible in the paint. I've driven the camera to the floor, smacked it to a wall, scrapped it over gritty cement; I'm not taking very good care of it. Does it still work? The night enhancement, that much I know continues to function without hitch. The cameras presence keeps me going, in more ways than I know.

I press my fingers to my cheek beside the corner of my mouth. My lips are chapped and I feel stubble. I don't remember when I was that I last shaved; if I… did I shave that day? I was allowed to shave? I'm not certain of how often I needed to shave, never paid attention to a detail like that. We… staff in the research division, everyone was issued company products – clothing, electronic devices, reading material. I was allowed to shave that morning.

I could twist the extended screen of the camera, and have it face me as it took in visual feed. I don't need a mirror to see, and learn what happened. I don't have to speculate as to what it was that made the patients accept my presence. I could understand what frightened the nonviolent employees of Murkoff. If I chose.

I don't turn the camera. I… it's too painful. This isn't the time. I keep the cameras eye piece aimed down, as I push my hand up through the thin hairline of my scalp. Too painful. Too much, all at once. The truth will destroy me. Not here. Save it. Save it for the fault line crack in the crust, when I need to dive off the edge and into the dark depths of the Truth. I'm still here, Waylon Park. I'm here, little pieces at a time. I've come so far, I can't lose it all now. No. Not when I feel… put together.

The echoes of the fading voices thrum through my head. The Security agents are long gone, but I feel their rejection resonating in me. I'm fortunate they fled, they may be the last sane people roaming, and alive. Their flight versus fight instinct saved them this far, and that left me trapped beyond the corroded bars. I could push the gate open a small width, but not enough to squeeze through. The large metal cabinet slanted across the gate was too heavy to force, and its sharp corners had adhered to the bars. To add salt to the wound, in the short corridor, above the cabinet, the buzzing sign read EXIT.

The large window to an office faced the steel gate, and the obstructed exit. I follow the hall to a barricade of stacked desks, plywood, and chairs; the only notary feature beyond the impassable heap is a door titled SECURITY. I turn, and peer through an open threshold, partially barred in; yellow light swaths my eyes, its unchallenged gleam reveals a flat screen monitor poised atop a countertop, the assemble is bolted to the wall with the office window. A clock hangs high on the wall, it reads ten something but I don't regard it with accuracy. One wall is overtaken by shelves crammed with boxes, mostly tubs stacked in each other. The wall adjacent to me has one door.

The room behind the door is black, and thick with dust. Through the cameras visor I view a large utility closet filled with metal, rusted, shelves; each level stuffed with boxes. I can't imagine what is in all these boxes, aside from outdated files or obsolete equipment. A desk stands against the wall near a shelf, but the computer that had once sat on its top has fallen over and lays cracked on the floor. The tower still hangs sideways off the desk, the cord for the monitor remains screwed to the backside.

I hastily scour the room for anything I could make use of. Sometimes I pause my movement and huddle in the back of the room, certain I've heard the shuffle of feet. Occasionally, I do hear the distant and desolate shriek tumbling through the winding halls outside. My nerves begin to wane, and I deem the search a waste of my battery. On my way past a desk, I catch the glimmer of… some kind of toy, which I take with me.

Despairing cries continue to haunt me, as I cautiously move from the dark closet. Nothing is immediately present to my senses, so I take the time to examine the toy. It is a toy, a small train with a switch on the bottom. It's relatively new, somewhat chewed on; I flip the switch, the wheels turn and it toots. I almost regret smashing it into the cement floor, breaking the stool over it in order to relieve the device of its battery. Admittedly, I would have wasted the time I didn't have by unscrewing the little hatch, if I had a screwdriver. It never dawned on me to maintain silence, not with all my exits blocked off. Save, for one I missed.

I rub at my face, in between replacing the overused battery in the infrared; the new battery is only at half power. I stay on my knees, peering through the partially barred threshold segregating the office and the corridor. A dark pit sinks into the wall, my only path. It absorbs the echoing chime of the siren, and ripples back null. I stare into the void, and the void turns away.

The dream tries to linger in my mind somewhere, but I'm distracted by new sensations – sounds like rapid footfalls and joyful squealing; outrageous arguments about food; who's touching who – somehow in their own way these events are monumental. It's not the asylum that haunts my head, it's the past I'm struggling to reclaim. I want them right now, even for a brief escape from the hell I'm locked in.

The warm side of the camera presses into my brow, a clammy fist knots into my thinning hair. I have to get out. I don't want to let those memories go. Wait for me. Please, wait for me.

The dark maw of the open corridor is much deeper and darker than I expected. I flash my eyes over the barricade as I enter through the gate. Already, I know this isn't an access to an exit, but it's in the same direction the frightened security agents had fled in. Block A. That's all I know; I have no maps I don't know if this is still part of the Prison Block, and I don't know how to reach the Administration Block from here at all.

I pull the steel door shut and spin in place. Green patterns spread through the visor, the edges don't feel so oppressive, they actually seem inviting. Lockers line the sides of the hall, most of the metal doors are torn open, but very little is within the containers. I scatter a few tattered pieces of paper on the floor, the movement rouses nests of insects which dart over and under my feet. I hiss through my teeth and jump away.

I catch my balance by one of the lockers and pant. Easy, take it slow; the insects are chewing on papers, not on…. I move forward, careful of where I set my feet. My eyes roam over the ceiling above, and the walls on either side; at my back the sounds of the sirens howl diminish with each step. The null encases me in a black cocoon, with nothing but the stringy green web that I gaze through.

My fingers brush over the frigid links of a gate at my side. I try the door, and peer into a deep stairwell. The gate is locked, and no identification is present to the location, but there is some light. On the other side of the hall stands another inactive purge gate, its presence makes me curious. Aside from the purge gates, there's no other evidence of precautions for containment. Murkoff may have had plans to expand their areas of research, or were in the middle of this progress.

My head spins. The men left on the other side of the hall, either forgotten or awaiting their fate. The priest. Where am I? They had plans. Twisted, horrible—

I knock over a row of chairs beside the wall, and stumble. I struggle to push the thoughts out of my head. I have no documentation to explain the presence of the purge gates here; for all I know these could be normal decontamination chambers for typical contaminates present in the average human being. I wish this were true, but nothing of Murkoff is ever so simple.

I hear a sound, a rough gasp that I try dismissing as my own bruised throat. It's on pure impulse that I wrench around and aim the camera. The silhouette is too distorted by the raw light of the corridor, I can only make out a torso and legs as it heaves forward. Sounds are easier to identify, and my legs have already begun spinning backwards by the time my head dregs up the recollections behind those gutted, nasally barks. The hinges in the gate shriek when the figure forces the door open, and the black lump hurtles my way at an alarming speed; beneath the heavy breathing I catch the sporadic clatter of metal chains twisting over the rough cement.

Jesus, the— that goliath!

I whip away and dive through the yawning doorway. The visor reads images backwards, I'm twisting in the dark trying to find my footing as I run over slippery, bulbous shapes. I catch glimpses of shimmering lumps and smell mildew, rot; none of it spoiled meat. Thank god, its garbage. No one's died her… yet.

"Contamination spreads by hour." His voice. Its hoarse, strained; my pursuer snarled and gags. I don't stop to ask. I don't pause to think. "Only cure—"

Papers slip under my bare feet as I pick up speed; the side of my arm scrapes the damaged wall, and I barely miss a mop bucket that slithers out under my blurred feet. In the dark pressing down around me, something whistles through the air. Cold prickles seep through the thin fabric of my shirt, and over my head I pick up on a second grating whine. Too close! He's too fucking close! I lurch down, cutting around the next corner as the same whistle tears through the dark cloak. My feet plod over cables left coiled on the floor, the camera catches walls and boxes as I whirl about, pumping my legs free of the whirling hazard. I will myself to keep my footing, move my legs like I've never run before. The cement under me rattles with each footfall, those soiled boots are able to match my pace.

The hall widens, but feels no less confining, no longer welcoming. Blurred and green windows whisk by, more rubbish and broken chunks of wood desks, demolished furniture. It's impossible to watch where I'm putting my feet and breeze over the walls revealing nothing, only stacks of boxes – no doors, no openings, or halls. My heart thrums in my chest as I encounter a dark thought. I shove it aside as I peel around the next corner, past windows; my throat drags at the musty air.

Dust tumbles around the camera, I can almost smell fresh wind, feel the breeze. But I'm trapped in this stifling hall of bared windows, and a monstrosity fixed to my heels. The gurney appears in my path before I have the chance to brace myself, but my hurtle over my arms and suddenly I'm moving.

The heavy wheezing is right on my neck.

My feet skip over the musty floor as I push, I'm forcing my legs to wind faster and keep traction as I swing around the next corner. I've barely got my balance back as I jerk to the side, to the next corner. I see eyes glint in the visor of the camera, teeth grinning wide. He's after me, he'll catch me – I can see the body fly through the door, the crack of the metal frame, bones snapped, skin ripped, blood. So much blood!

What looks like a hall creeps into sight, but one glance is all I need – there are windows, but no openings. I zip between a wheelchair and a bed slanted by the wall. My hand slaps the wall as I stumble toward it, a second bed slinks into the visor.

At my back comes a crunch of a metal frame, followed by a grotesque snarl. A large shape hurtles over my head, air and dust bellow in its wake. I know what it is before if glanced off the wall and shatters across the floor in my path. The wheelchair. Somehow he missed my head, in this narrow corridor. I trample ripped cloth, and practically flew over a bed flipped sideways in the hall. The ghost of the wheelchair haunts a decorative alcove, with windows at either side – windows loaded with broken furniture and shelves. The air thins out over my tongue, I can taste it. Something burns at my foot, the scrape on my foot got tangled in a rough piece of cloth. I don't pause, my foot rips free and I feel a shower of dust scatter at my ankles. My leg gave out and I stagger. The monster of a man gives out a wet growl as he thrusts his arm out, through the view piece of the camera. I spin away, get onto my feet and barrel into the dark abyss before me.

Damn books, wood; the floor was gummy and soft under my feet. Carpet. Carpet stained with blood and melting. Mold. Black blood.

The hall came to a dead end. I run shoulder first into a dusty mattress, braced behind it stand bookshelves, desks. My free hand smears cold snot over my lip. What do I do? Where s'that—

The giant man mutters right next to my shoulder, he talks about a ghost and a breech in protocol. I believe I'm dead, that somehow I've been exempted the unpleasant process of dying. My tightens in my chest, pain fills my skull. I feel the draft, the fresh cold air laced with rain coils about my shoulders.

"I'll give you the peace you—" I don't catch the full sentence. He barks something out, a warning, a laugh; it's not clear.

Glass crackles under heavy feet, like the laughter of small children, but I've already braced my feet over the clean side of the frame. I don't see where I am before the camera drops, I tuck into under one arm as I topple through the expanse of black opening under my body. Icy fingers paw at the back of my neck, fleetingly, but I keep spiraling into the dark with only a glimpse of the sky as I—

I groan, as my body shifts. Sharp pebbles cut into my shoulder and hip, my whole being is stunned and I can only drag myself an inch. A brisk, cold breeze tussles the hair on the back of my exposed neck; my sluggish hand grips at the loose gravel of the surface where I lie. I must move, escape, before he drops down and shatters my spine with his blood soaked boots.

A scarce sheen of light bleeds down from the rolling clouds above, accenting all the gnarled angles above me, in sharp and twisted detail. I don't see where the window is that I plunged from, but I see the glossy shoulders jut forward as a coughing hackle echoed through the rustling wind. He's gone after that, retreating back to the deep shadows to skulk and kill. I wait where I lay, low shuddering gasps tickling my throat. He thought I was dead, he must've. God, he must know I'm broken and dead. Find someone else that needs killing.

Slowly, I peel my body off the rocky surface. By some small miracle or something, I'm only badly bruised, maybe sprained. I think. I sit with the camera balance on my leg and feel my body over, give my hands a toes a little test; I study from where I fell. In one piece, still able to move. The camera? I can't see if the surface is cracked, but my fingers press it over – the crucial parts like the night reader and visor are intact, and its still recording. I exhale a stale breath, and take a deep swallow of the fresh air. Pine, with the invigorating scent of rain. It feels so clean.

I'm on a sort of balcony or roof ledge; the side of the building I dropped from intersects with the slanted roof by me. Beneath the roof, a line of windows peer out across the gravel. I lean low, struggling to peer through the muggy glass, but it's impossible.

The shoots of dry weeds thrive on the tar enriched silt; around and above I see the greasy tangled of tree branches stretching toward the sky, churned by the restless winds. Is there… a storm coming? Thick clouds boil through the silver and black sky, and I see the moon for a brief spell before the clouds press over the shimmering glob. The fog is gone, shredded and scattered by this savage weather. I can see the sky now, the real sky. It's… it is magnificent.

I… I don't recall skies like I remember when I was younger. When I was a kid and I could spend lazy summers staring through the wistful white clouds. It feels like decades ago, maybe it has been. I… I loop my arm across my chest and hold my sore shoulder as I shudder. The anguished cries of Lisa, of my boy stolen away, flood my ears. My throat tightens on a strained sound as I fold down, and rock on my knees. It was just a dream. The boys are safe. Nightmares, these grounds are built on nightmares, they can't hurt me. My internal mantra was reminiscent to the same lies… I told my kids. No. Murkoff made monsters. Somehow, the nightmares were confined to these walls, and I only needed to find my way out.

I give the roofs ledge a short walk around, and find only the far end blocked by a rail, and a drop behind the corroded metal. The open side of the roof drops off onto a lower ledge of another roof. I fix my grip on the camera and with one hand holding the metal edge, I lower down and drop. I lose my balance and nearly pitch off the roof, but manage to topple sideways and grab the rail fixed to the roofs side. In the cameras grainy view the fall doesn't look far; there's a cement ramp stretched under a lamp, the surrounding soil looks blotchy and hazardous.

By appearance, it's some sort of courtyard. A courtyard is just an inner yard surrounded by walls, usually the building it is propertied by; tall, massive, omnipresent walls surrounding the sunken earth where I stand; their sharpened edges severe away the natural light in the sky from the moldering yard.

I slip down from the side of the roof, away from the perilous light, and fall into a tall clump of weeds behind a pile of rusted pipes. The yard is difficult to perceive with the bright drape of the lamp at my shoulder; the ramp below it leads to a pair of metal doors. I move under the deep shadows and cross the sidewalk that leads up to the ramp, the overgrown with weeds extend out as far as I can see before they become unruly heaps quivering under the sway of the wind. I huddle down as I creep through them; overhead, the breeze cuts sharply through the canopy of the trees, generating eerie creaking and snapping.

A sound lurches forth, its direction unknown to my senses. My path trailed along a brick wall, but I pause between a tree trunk and a fence to crouch low. In the distance I see the light from suspended lamps, and I hear erratic scuffling in the undergrowth. I reason that it's animals like rats, or some sort of wildlife, but the sound… it's like whispers. Someone's talking.

Nothing is visible in the range of the visor. I kneel lower and turn the camera this and that way, skimming over the wave of weeds. I gather that behind me stretches a the surface of a wall, but the yard between me and there is deserted. I'm still hearing the sounds, seeing names shapes lumber through the denser patches of weeds.

A gate in the fence is padlocked. I ty the door, which opens by a foot, and try to jam my body through the small opening. I make too much noise and recoil, my ears scrape over the cold metal. I leave the gate and hike across the yard, my direction steadily moves away from the fence as the growth of weeds thickens.

The night silenced for a scream. I heard it, I'm certain. I tucked down under the weeds, curled up with the camera pressed to my chest. It was a fleeting noise, like the crack of parched timber. My shoulders shook around my chest. And when I raised my gaze to probe through the velvet drapes that drowned my eyes, I could see the shadows digging around the shrubs along the fence; its vague shape drifting among the thick tangle of branches overhead. God, oh god! It's out here!

A clump of roots rip free when I launch from the ground. I sprint across the yard, all but smash into a brick wall in my path and divert course. I imagine the shade… Walrider tearing through the landscape at my back, screaming with its static shrill. The harsh bludgeoning that I'm accustomed to when anything Walrider chokes me is absent, but I do not stop to marvel. My eyes lock onto a distant blur beyond the inky swell brewing beneath the clouds, and I make a beeline up the cold path. My sore, blistered feet clap over the sidewalk path, my legs launch me up the ramp, and I collide with the metal door. The knob turns, but the doors backside cracks against something and opens no further. I press my shoulder to the door, my feet slip over the smooth ground but whatever is there won't budge.

The chatter followed me from the yard. I glimpse over my shoulder, and vault over the rail on the ramps side. At my shoulder, I catch the glitter of light in… an open window. I don't fully explore what's on the other side of the open frame, I throw my body over the tight ledge and spill into the bright room within. My elbow skids of a cold wet puddle under my landing, and the buckets my heels knock over clatter about as I roll and fumble. I drag myself backwards on my palm, camera held by my waist; my eyes fix on the window and the wavering shapes beyond the shimmering frame. I'm assaulted by the scent of grungy oil and oxidized metal. The forlorn twitter of the cold air beckons, but from it I sense no malice, no shadows. Natural light is fading, making lumps shimmer. Nothing is following me, I lost it— It… it left me. Was it there? Or... no, I didn't see it. I repeat this in my mind for a while, "_I saw nothing. There is nothing._"

I roll over onto my side and breathe in the dank dust, the rank atmosphere of the room dug at me. My eyes sweep over the visible walls swathed in light, and decide I'm in a large storage shed. The walls are stuffed with stacks of pallets and large blue barrels. Barrels. They used the containers down in the basement. That's where I remember them. I pushed myself up and scooted towards the barrels left in the back of the room. I somehow sensed the hollowness before I set my hand upon the dented surface, each barrel was covered in a fine layer of dust. Used and hidden away, just like the patients.

I swallow at the hot taste coating my tongue. The voices come back, screaming. Lateral ascension. That dull winding works its way into my spine, unearthly sounds mingle with the haze squirming in my peripheral. Don't take me… not behind the glass. I don't belong here, please; skulls twist, children skulls carving deep hollows into my brain, singing, laughing. "_No. Don't touch them!_"

My legs fold up under me, and I drop beside the barrel. Piece by piece, everything I loved, everything I knew. Robbed. Dismantled.

"_You can't… you can't do this…._"

"_Oh… no. God no!_"

For a moment, I don't know where I am. It's only bright and miserable. My eyes are muddled, the lingering screens are superimposed in my vision, the lurching shapes take longer to subside. I let them melt at their slow pace, my thoughts are still scattered. My heart thuds against the thin fabric that covers my chest, but given time it'll fall back into something like normalcy. A feeble whimper slips out of me, as I crawl towards a set of deep sinks set in the wall.

I thought for certain, I was back in that room. The glass room. Head filled with static, the sensation of it scrabbling for purchase inside my smooth skull. It's fresh, all raw inside my head. A festering ugly wound that refuses to heal. I'll beat it. It's the one thing I can fight.

The sinks are dry. I try the handle, but the pipes only groan. I shut them off, and lean my shoulder on the base, my eyes gaze blearily at papers strewn on the floor near a dark corner. I pull some of the marked up sheets my way and examine the writing, some of its readable but most pages are scrawled with tattered wording. They must be notes written by patients, some of the handwritten notes had requests, or others detailed their feelings like a diary. I suddenly didn't feel right looking through them, and I pushed the ones I gathered away.

One note caught my eye. It was written completely in cursive, wonderful, eloquent cursive. My laughable handwriting was a joke compared to this, but… the message was disquieting.

"_Above the knees, below the navel,_

_sliced and sewn on Gluskin's table._

_To make a place to push inside,_

_the Groom will make himself a bride._

_Above the knees, below the navel,_

_sliced and sewn on Gluskin's table._

_To make a place to push inside,_

_the Groom will make himself a bride."_

_Above the knees, below the navel,_

_sliced and sewn on Gluskin's table._

_To make a place to push inside,_

_the Groom will make himself a bride._

_Above the knees, below the navel,_

_sliced and sewn on Gluskin's table._

_To make a place to push inside,_

_the Groom will make himself a bride."_

There were two pages like this, the text continued down the backside of both pages. There might've been a fourth and fifth, but I didn't look.

"If he finds you." The disembodied voice propelled me backwards. My rear crashed into a stack of pipes piled by the wall, the calamity rippled up the walls and burned into my eardrums. The whole asylum must've heard.

I scrambled over the pipes as they slithered out from under my feet and hands; my hand nearly flung the camera off. It was a full minute of noise and confusion, before I took in the lack of hostility. I lay across the two steps beneath the window, gawking into the dark corner surrounded by the discarded pages. His eyes were visible, I could make out his bald head above the dark shoulders and his pale toes, but not much else. It looked like, he surrendered to his fate. "Finds you," he said. "He'll. He will. He'll cut you."

My gaze wouldn't move from the figure. I slipped away, along the wall until I reached the corner. The dark patch of shadow didn't make sense to my eyes, it seemed wholly contained around the person… if a person was really there, and I was seeing them.

One corner of the room was a traditional work shed, the walls intersecting the corner were fixed with a work bench littered with cut wood and rusted tools; fixed to the wall above the bench hung a dim fluorescent lamp. Slates of brittle wood hung on the wall, its surface was fitted with hooks; many held nothing but space, anything that could be used as a weapon was long gone.

The room plunged into sudden black. What the hell? What—

Shrieking and laughter sprang from the wall, under the squeal of strained hinges. I ducked beside the work bench, and felt around blindly with my one hand for the table. A door gave under the assault of the voices, and I caught the bright crease of night, somewhere in the fresh dark. I saw the patterns but I don't know what I saw; they're not getting in, that's all I know.

It could be security, or patients. Anyone. Jeremy Blaire was still out there, dedicated to concluding what he started. I cram my body more into the corner of the bench among the moldy wood crumbs, and listen.

The hysterical cackles fade away, giving in to the raspy gale coiling through the high branches. They wouldn't just leave like that. Something frightened them… him (I don't know how many). It could be… the Walrider. Death himself. I stifle my ragged breathing by biting into the foul sleeve of my shirt. I wasn't hallucinating, I saw it.

In the dark, I hear a sound. A faint scratching and scraping. It then comes back to me, this room wasn't empty.

A shape shimmers through the solemn gray vapor spilling from the window. My wild heart hammers at my ribs. I know it's the man from the corner, no longer shackled to his black tent of safety and seclusion. He glides over the net of dust, and sinks back into the pool of shadows. Locked in here with me; Christ, I can't stay here. No place safe. No safe place.

The green hue of the cameras screen blazed in my eyes. Spots pulse through my vision as I fumble half blind, struggling to find my way with one hand outstretched, my balance offset. I pat at the dusty floor, my fingers fin sharp metal sides, toothy grates— rusted hinges squeal with protest, the mild utterance was accusing, a trumpet demanding immediate attention. I choke, my throat aching for the fresh air I had only a taste of. I need to find my way; where was safety? Where was escape?

Illusions. Once you accept the reality of the situation, then you are free.

"Find you. That's what he does," the voice said.

I push away from it, heels kicking at the floor. Lockers stretch through the endless green gloom, I don't have the sense to regard the images winking through the camera. I can't get out. I'm trapped. I'll die. I'm just gonna die.

My back plows into the hard edge of a corner. I'm still heaving backwards, while my body twists over. It's a large cabinet. I saw it briefly when the voices hooted, they slammed the door against it but couldn't force it down. The cabinet blocked the door.

I don't dwell on if the voices are crouched outside, waiting. I want out, I need escape.

I shove a hand and arm to the cabinet's rusted side, my heels brace back onto a sturdy structure of wood somewhere at my back; the camera stays clasped in one hand. With all the strength I can muster, I heave forward. The sharp legs of the cabinet dig through the dirt and cement; it's weighted, filled with pipes and rolls of cable. I give three grueling shoves before I check my side, where the crease in the door should be. A chilled breeze flutters, tickling my knuckles. I close a hand around the door handle, and the door swings back with a whisper.

"If he finds you. What does he do?"

In the absence of artificial light, the patchy sky has become brighter than any daylight I have come to know. My legs shred through dry weeds as I run. I don't hear voices, or cries, or the haunting shrill that unnatural shapes fabricate through my nightmares. I won't stop. Lisa. For our boys. I'll find a way home.

* * *

**Hey. Who turned out the lights?**


	17. Chapter 17

**Saul's Truth**

The air hangs heavy with decay and infection. The walls constrict around me with sounds – water dripping, insects humming, the wind spinning through the leaves. I sit in the dark cloak beyond the lights reach, huddled down on broken chunks of pallets and wet bricks. I'm starting to shiver, but I can't decide if it's from the dampness of the air or my body cooling down. I never see anyone come down from the cement steps; there are no new sounds I can't immediately identify, but sitting where I am feels comfortable.

I found the gate in the yard, and tumbled down the stairway to this underground reservoir. A pipe is braced across my path like a barrier for the light, and along the wall is stretches a second mighty pipe; its side is draped with soggy cardboard, the cement floor is littered with papers, decayed plant stuff, and a layer of sludge. I keep looking along the fence at my side. Water laps along the sides of the shallow channel trough, its surface flickers under the bulb somewhere on the wall.

I've been down here ages, but I'm in no hurry to untangle myself. I only noticed the hole in the fence while I was hiding; it's not exactly a window.

I limp and grasp at the cold links at my shoulder. I must've been coiled up longer than I thought; my knees are stiff and the soles of my feet can't take the pressure. Some of the ache eases out of my body as I move along the fence to the opening. I poke my head to the upper edge of the fences frame; insects zip under the light and others cling to my eyes. I rub my face over my sleeve, and peer at the fences upper frame where the glittering metal threads connect; they are cut and bent outward, barely wide enough for my shoulders.

My thoughts revisit the work shed. There was a wall with pegs, and leftover tools abandoned. The feed in the visor hadn't been clear, or I'm not remembering enough; the wild cackle, voices, someone shuffling in the dark. The window was open, the door was… barricaded. Someone went into the shed, and blocked the door. Was someone chased into there?

He was left in the veil of the corner, hiding. Or banished. The window was open….

I don't know. Too literal, I got to stop being so literal.

I bite into the cameras strap and grip the upper rim of the fence. The fence rattles as I wobble, my teeth tighten on the strap as the cold links burn into my feet. While I'm balanced, I survey the gray water below, and the side of the channel. I manage to lower myself onto a collection of spare pipes abandoned in the trough; I take a sharp breath when the strain tugs at my shoulder. Unlike the reservoir, where the water collected but was marginally clean, the water in this sewer drain was thick, oily, and all shades of swimming colors.

The pipes shift under my weight, and insects twirl about my head. I judge another break in the fence, along the channel. A low intersection of pipes frames the trimmed wire, and beyond that are shadows and wind whistling. The thick tepid liquid feels soothing on my feet, but the smell of the water as I break the surface is warning. I'm reluctant to take another step, or crouch down into this bog of unknown drainage. But I know there are no choices in this matter. I hear voices, but I don't; people are still out there. They're looking for me. They know. I can't hide.

Go fast. And don't stop.

I aim the camera forward, and scoot over the jagged bottom. Before ducking under the pipes T, I pull the belt up over my chest line. My knee slips in the sludge, and I pitch sideways on my thigh. I'm momentarily blind in the dark, but somehow don't throw the camera off my hand. I get myself together and splash forward; a ramp exits the sludge and I climb up onto a flat walk. My chest is wetted and my legs soaked. I rub my hands over the sides of my jumper, and grab at the pouches. Damp, but not soaked; I open zippers and paw around inside the belts pouches and find the interior in much of the same condition. While stopped, I pull out a fresh battery and change out the dying cell.

In the channel behind me, I swear, I heard a splash; a large and heavy thing. The noise of it echoes back to me, but where I sit memorized by the shoreline, the water is calm and placid. I imagined it? Yes, I— I must've.

The channel continues along a short corridor, and ends at a flight of steps. I ease past soggy pallets, and raise the camera to a ledge and fence that frames the raised walls of the channel; above me lays a flat grate. I move up the steps, sporadic flashes blaze through the green hue of the visor. If I wasn't half drenched, the fresh breeze that swelled around me would have been welcomed relief, compared to the dank reek of oil and decay soaked into my clothes.

Shivering, I moved up the last league of steps and stood behind and open metal gate. Cold, god it was so cold now. It was unbearable before, I might die of hypothermia if I can't get out of the open air. Overhead, there was a brilliant but silent flash; leaves rustle through the grass around me, or is that whispers? People are out here, that's a fact.

There's a sharp scent in the breeze; smoke or cinder. I sweep the camera over the open yard and find at a distance to my right, tall fences emitting a mild crackle. It doesn't register what I'm looking at, not until I leave behind the open gate and move towards the tall fences, their upper edge trimmed with curled barbed wire. The cameras view becomes choppy, behind the fence burns a dull light, I can't make out much but some sort of structure, a precarious tower and slanting sides; a building and roofs. The malicious thrum of electricity is everywhere, snapping and popping. I find a gate in an extending corridor of the fence, no chain, but everything is metal. A swirl of embers cascade from the base of the chain links, most of the foliage along the fence is smoking and burnt; I sneeze at the acrid smell of scorched weeds—

"Please! Help me! Somebody! I need help!"

I drop into the woods and listen. The voice was faint, I can't decide which direction it came from. I move through swaying weed, always following the path marked by the camera. I slip between a worn wooden bench and eventually come to a gravel path; branches creak under my feet, and I stagger back under the tree. Framed in the night feature stands a low peaked roof, with walls stretching skyward behind it; beneath the edifice stands a black but open portal. I sprint towards it and up the short set of steps; getting out of the wind feels better, but the dark that envelopes me feels… icy.

Ahead, a set of doors surface from the murk, glistening and welcoming. I stumble up the tile steps and slump against the doors, even though I can see there's plywood braced across the backside. The doors won't budge, and I don't know if I should feel depressed or satisfied. There's no medium between the nightmares that lurk, I'm cold and my toes are numb.

The unobstructed windows reveal a room packed with desks or tables, all lined up, and bookshelves. The pale memory of light falls from over the floor, enough to brighten the green hue of the cameras vision with sharp clarity. Someone's inside. A dark shape, gliding like a spirit through the murky recesses. I duck when it turns, and press my body into the door.

It's the shade. It's something terrible and malicious. It's an unrestrained manifestation of horror, which I can't look upon without associating the presence with terror and pain.

No medium. The nightmares are always lurking, hunting, driven mad by the reek of fear in my every pore. I cringe beside the cold wood expecting the scream of sirens, only to realize, they're gone. Long gone. Their absence was a relief, but I miss them. I miss the repetition, the familiarity. I never thought it possible to be too quiet.

There's a piece of paper, folded and pinned beneath the doors. I pull at it gently; it's wedged in good, and the tattered sheet threatens to rip in two. I take the page and smooth out the lines, and turn the visor down to read the words.

"_Kill us. Burn the building. Worse than death here. Kill us. Kill us_."

I don't deny the words, these last words of some dying, broken person. All that was worse than death was drained from the soil, and distilled within these walls. Worse than death. Sometimes, it'd make you beg for death. I've never heard anyone beg for death. It was something I thought I wanted, while in the Engine. Absolve my ecstasy in everything I didn't understand. If only I'd known sooner, but I was ruined. An accident salvaged what was left of me. If someone asked me before this, between my life, or, a hundred people, what would I choose? I don't know what I'd say.

The fenced in alcoves in either side of the corridor have very little space to hold supplies. One side was stacked with pallets and metal cabinet containers, but the gate wouldn't open. The parallel side looked recently used, and was filled with discarded barrels, on the floor among the rubbish lay a walkie-talkie, with one battery.

I return to the open grounds, and ease down the steps as I move the camera over the perceivable landscape. The other side of the yard way from the sizzling fence is a vague heap of twisted branches, and sloping roofs contrasted under the swirling horizon. I hurry across the path and slip past a large tree, into more tall grass and weeds. The muggy scent of stagnate water hits me, and I pause. A row of thick shrubbery rises around the base of a fence, I can't get a clear view where I am; except, the fence is powered, and smolders under the darkening sky. I keep half my attention trained to it, and focused on the cameras visor as I pick my way through a tall row dry brush. The sharp twigs tear at the soggy material of my scrubs, but I get through without tearing my face too badly.

Movement catches my eye. There is a figure on the other side of the fence. He calls something out to me, about the Administrative Block. I don't recall if he knew for certain if this was the way, I never ask. I blink and he's gone. Just another shadow. No one is there, and no one was ever there.

A bench sits on either side of the path, I stand at the edge of. My breath whispers between my lips, as I dab at my surroundings. Leaves slither over the path, and in the night comes to wail of some animal. I move out from the thicket, and follow the side of a fence glowing in the visor. On the gravel lays a bent gate, and in the fence stands the open portal.

Leaves and dirt cling to my ankles. All the water is leaking down with gravity and accumulating around my feet. The gummy wrappings break off as I wade through the gate, pressing into more overgrown weeds—

I jerk down when something cold and sharp scratches my scalp. A branch, from a tree. I don't stand up fully, as I cross the yard. Another fence, less than five or something feet from the gate I came through. I strafe along the interlocked metal, the cameras view is limited in the dark. Voices creep through the foliage. I don't stop or listen. A large tree invades the side of the fence, and I have to climb over the bulbous roots that 'ooze' between the metal; otherwise, the fence stands strong.

I'm kicked in the face. I put my arms out, lose sight immediately, and recoil. The pain felt real, but I'm left huddled in a corner delirious and confused; the raspy twitters in the dark close in around me. I bring up the camera, and angle my view on a corpse slumped against the brick siding of a building. I'm sure he's security, his shoulders and waist are blotchy. I ponder the body for scarce few minutes, before I back away through the brittle shrubs.

I whirl around and quicken my pace, ducking through an opening in the yard. The wind picks up, throwing a whirlwind of leaves around me. On the grounds near me, branches splint and tear as if someone is running alongside me. Through the thicket I spy snippets of glittering lights, sometimes eyes. I'm imagining it. There are no eyes, I don't know what it is but it is absolutely not eyes.

I dash through an open gate, my path lined by endless fences – fences filled with the boney fingers of branches curling through the links, shaking the corroded metal with rapid shakes. The path twists and turns, doubles back; I'm certain more than once I've raced through the same stretch of narrow passage.

Until I stop at the edge of a set of steps that descend, to a narrow passage. The door is visible in the cameras night visual, amid a dim outline. It's suddenly so quiet.

It aches to stand still, to let the hard tremors rip my muscles apart. I take the steps slowly, straining to hear over my thundering heartbeat. As I progress deeper into the thick murk, the air thickens and becomes tolerable to my chilled skin. I have no pause in my shivering, and constantly glance back up the stairway for pursuers. The choppy breeze dissipates as I move further down the narrow corridor. I can't press my nerves to dismiss the noises I'm leaving behind; it's nothing, the wind. Light glimmers across the surface of short cinderblock walls, and ahead a shrouded opening.

The tight walls open up, into a larger hall lined with shelves. There are other items, a few barrels, pallets propped beside one wall. I dither in the threshold and listen, before I take steps. Sounds are present, but I cannot identify where or what sort. Could be voices, could be pipes hissing; overhead, pipes stretch along the ceiling.

It's not here, it can't be. The Walrider roams where there is life and chaos; this place is void of it all but space. I don't 'sense' that it's here, this subterranean is too quiet.

Someone is panting, I hear them. They were out of breath or in pain can't tell. In these constrained quarters there's few places they could be, and less spaces for me to hide.

On either side of the hall are lockers; one side are stacked, some of the doors hung open, the other side are tall lockers. I try the latch on one and find it opens easily. The hall ends at a wall, I keep beside the larger lockers and shuffle towards a draft right around the wall. Some light burns from the other side of the room, but where I crouch I've found a gate behind boxes and ruble. The gates locked.

Light trickles down from a grate that makes up the ceiling above, the thick blot of a shadow slinks along the corridor behind me. I step away from the gate, and move along the stretching pathway. The noise become louder, a shrill sob and pleads. Ahead of my path, in the center of the cameras view, burns the bright haze of a light at the depth of a dark pit. A gate surfaces from the murk, and I press myself away from it as much as I can possibly, while I strafe by.

The swell of decay hit me full in the face before I see it. It's hard to make out clearly in the camera, at first. The cement is streaked with black lines, heaps of bodies in uniform and crammed in the chute. I recognize some, doctors, maybe a researcher. I inch by, while I view the figure poised over them muttering to himself, and trembling. I'm not sure what I'm looking it, and I'm embarrassed to admit that it takes far too long for me to understand the movements. I make no sound, and hurry.

I didn't need to see that. I don't need to think about what could be worse than death. What could possibly be worse? They left patients for hours on end in the rooms, abandoned us. Forgetting about our needs. The endless tests. Subjected to the Engine.

The Engine. The Morphogenic Engine.

It's dark, but for the light across the room. Metal cabinets hover at the edge of the cameras night feature. I stand where I am and listen to the sound, the hum. It's here but I can't move, it's here and I won't move. I'm shaking hard, the camera trembles against my cheek. It's not here, it went elsewhere to punish someone, and it's not near here. The warble prickling my skin, it's meant to be here. Electricity. I can feel that, the charge bristling in my nerves. The glimmering pinpoint is my heading; it works then it has a purpose. What I find is a metal box with a leaver sticking out of it, the small bulb on the box illuminates this switch, and a small sigil of a zigzagging bolt. Electrical. Would this… this would control the charged fence. But power was already out.

"Blood will out! There are always drains. Always wounds!"

I took the handle dragged it down. The lever resisted, but it had to have been used recently. Power was important, it made the lights… in the Prison Block.

A harsh crackle ignited on the air and the small light flashed from green to red. I looked up from the camera as the entire room droned out a whirring exhale, and the steady pulse that fluctuated on the ends of my nerves evaporated. The room faded into complete and all immovable black, save for the red gleam of the bulb at my back.

In the room I located a few barrels, along with a gate hidden to the side. The barks of voices spit through, someone shouting gibberish and an ambiguous crash of metal; after that I hear no more, and could see nothing down the long hall. I keep by the wall and find the corridor I entered through.

I leaned a little forward as I shuffled, listening. The person behind the gate remained steadfast to his… business, and didn't seem to notice the loss of light. It was even deeper and darker on his side of the gate, but I didn't linger. I creep by as quiet as I can, he never seems to notice me. I repeat it in my head over and over, "_This place is awful. This place is awful_." As if it segregates me from everything done, offers me some sort of immunity. "_I'm not like them. I don't belong here. A misunderstanding._"

Or maybe it's not. Maybe… I am insane, like the rest of them. Maybe Blaire was right. Maybe I was the wrong one all along.

It's fucked up. Everything's just so fucked up, I can't fix it. Can't fix the radio. Can't call, can't tell Lisa what happened. Can't tell her the truth. She needs to know. I want to tell her. She needs to hear it from me.

The sharp breeze pierces my jumper as I step up the steps, and back up onto the yard. I tug at my shirt collar as I search around; whirling leaves buffet my face. I don't feel alone out here. Someone's watching, I can feel it. This thought drives a new wave of shivers through my skin, and pain prods at my gut. .

The large structure of the fence isn't difficult to relocate, despite it huddled mass melding with the horizon. Despite the intolerable weather, their felt subdued. I reasoned it was because the power to the fence was cut and the charge had evaporated. I didn't even know the asylum had an electrical fence.

I began to wonder if the fence was even electrified in the first place. Why would I turn away, unless it was?

I crossed the gravel path and hiked towards the silent framework. My hand was almost clasped to the door handle, but I jerked back when a loud pop crackled ignited on the wind. Under the wailing storm, a low hum raised from the power station beyond the fence, until the soil under my feet was vibrating. Mist rose off the metal links, embers popped from the crisp leaves. And I imagined the man from below, still perched over dozens of mutilated corpses, cackling over the night air. The air pulsed with a short current that snapped from the barbed wire, and up into the dark clouds.

My head throbbed. I lowered the camera and rubbed at my eyes with the back of my wrist. Damn. Damn it. I look back to the gate and the pole light beside the opening, piercing the dark veil within its reach. Electricity was back on. Everywhere? Or just here? There are more lights, patches burn under the torrent of leaves and dust, windows shimmer like broken teeth in the walls far into the night. Power was back on somewhere, where lines remained connected. That didn't help me where I am. The fence hissed and sputtered, intolerant of my presence. I leave it, and take myself over to a weathered bench beside the tree, and slumped in the rough seat.

"_The power is still on. Electricity._

_I need to think, Lisa. I thought the power was evidence that some manageable... some human force still controlled some small part of Mount Massive. But nothing human or sane can do anything here but survive, and even that not for long. You were always the reasonable one, Lisa. You would tell me to calm down, to take a larger view._

_Madness and inhumanity rule this place. Whatever is keeping the electricity flowing is trying to trap me here. I need to shut it down again?_"

I hear the laughter cut through the air, or a wild apparition with no laws, no ounce of logic in its structure. Shut the power off again, and again. Keep doing it, until I got it right. That's the answer, it's the only logical course. I know where the breaker is, I can stop this.

The light fails to make the return trip any more comforting; it burns off some of the dark, but then I plunge back into the heavy night that is steadily constricting the visibility of the camera. The battery teeters on half power, before plunging off into its decline. I turn the corner in the fence and gaze down the steps, into the underground. The door I had not touched remained open, light gushed out over the gray floor. My steps are slow, fitted with frequent pauses.

Light blazes from overhead fluorescent lights, incriminating my exact location. The corridor is lined up with Murkoffs gear – barrels, shelves, workbenches. When I approach the hall that turns to my left, and the breaker room, I hug close to the row of midsized lockers. No noises come from around the corner.

It was too quiet, almost unnatural. The walls and pipes now revealed seemed much smaller, and closer together. I eyed the gate that had barred the man in, but my focus dropped to a thick red streak that curved out from the base of the door, and trailed off down the hall. In the direction of the breaker switch.

He was not to be seen or heard; no noise aside from the low drone of the power cables packed into the room. Within the hall he had occupied, only the corpses lay draining into the cement. One less, one more; what did it matter? I followed the trail of blood until it ended, or stopped. There was no body. It seemed improbable that a stain that thick would suddenly dry up in a corpse. I slowed as I moved over the mark….

Down, down, down….

The little light above the breaker was again green but the leaver remained down, like I flipped it. I stuffed the camera into its pocket, and tried fiddling with the power boxes around the switch. I got one box to the side open, but it was filled with a spaghetti nightmare of connectors, plugs – I was a technician, not an electrician. With a sigh, I returned to the leaver and tried flipping it up, then back down.

The bulb blinked red, but the strobes overhead remained bright. I must've messed something up, or missed something. I don't think I should start pulling out cables, but if I was careful—

"Hello, doctor…."

I pivot to face a man, another patient in the dingy scrubs; face scarred, stitches lacing where his nose once was. I throw myself backwards and manage to crack the exact center of my spine into the down leaver. As he advances, I tumble sideways onto the icy floor and stare up at him. There's blood on his arms and blood smears across his lap. Get away. I have to get away from him. Numbness weighs my limbs down as I struggle to move; I gawk the patient, blocking my path.

He snapped something at me, slurred language that sounded like a command. I kicked away, flopping over the floor and climbed onto a pallet. This side of the room had a gate, and shouting. I don't reach the gate.

"Put you down." He knotted his fist into the cloth over my chest, nearly tearing flesh from bone. I prop an arm behind me as I recoil; his other hand latches to my face, and one finger was dangerously close to my eye. "Your eyes. Nice."

An odd hum sliced the air; anguished and pitiful, like a crippled cat. Then a sharp whizzing, and then the figure pin wheeled on his side, snarling and cursing. No longer pinned, I shove myself upright and tear by the man. My fist snapped open, releasing a bucket my knuckles had locked onto; it clattered across the floor as I dashed through the hall. The echoes of the patient clawed after me while he fought out of the pain.

"Hey! Hey, god dammit! I hear you!"

I don't understand what happened, what I did. I'm not like that. But I'm alive, and that keeps me going.

I fly through the tight walls of the hall, scraping the gray walls with my shoulder before I reach the door. I ram the door shut with my shoulder, and look through the foggy window as the patient charges through the corridor, glazed and damaged eyes locked on my face. I know for a fact he'll tear my eyes out of their sockets with his fingers.

The light. Follow the light! I reach the top of the stairs and turn, making a beeline for the harsh blaze of the lamp bellowing in the cameras night range. Somewhere in the shadows behind me, the patients is crashing through the grass and maybe branches of the trees, but he's searching for me.

A cold silence hovers on the wind as I sprint across the yard. It's glorious, but I haven't begun to appreciate the total absence of sound, heat, and life. The power in the fence has not restored itself, logic or not, I could define it as a small technical miracle.

The wind rasps over my cold neck; the timber above rattles and grinds. I nearly plow into the fences side, the camera was jostled out of my line of sight as I began feeling for the door in the metal lattice. "_He's coming, I hear him calling,_" my mind chants. Got to think, slow down and think. There was a door, an offshoot corral in the fence. I find the door.

"You're not getting away!"

I was perplexed by the door actually being open. As if in these circumstances everything had to be against me. I swung inside and snapped the gate into the frame behind me; immediately I stumbled as my foot caught on rusted pipes. More rusted pipes! My foot was numb as I limped across the yard; the grounds were full of all manner of debris, junked and pitched – broken wood littered with nails, across the bare soil glittered pieces of something in the infrareds beam. The side of a brick wall lined with windows slides into view, and along its side I can make out mostly clear ground. I see light inside the window, but there's a light gleaming around the corner of the wall.

Hinges squealed over the bleak groan of the wind, and the storm building. The patient was coming. I could pick out his footfalls in the gravel, his harsh breath. He's keeping up with me too well.

The lamp above the door explores in the visor, when I cut the corner. I skid over loose rocks as my hand snaps out catching the handle. The door is open by an inch, but I manage to snap it shut when I falter backwards. I try and twist the handle and throw my body against the door, this has me plastered to the door when I fail to turn the doorknob all the way.

"Doctors lie! All lies! All dead, dead!" The patient smashes into the door, when I ram it with my shoulder from the other side. The latch doesn't catch in the frame, and he throws the door back into me. I stagger sideways, heaving a ragged whine as my feet take to the sharp surface of the grate that dominates the floor. It's beyond my senses that I'm able to keep going, that I'm on my feet and running, if barely. "There's no need to run!"

I lose no time. The corridor is long, built of brick, one side is lined with large windows. I can't see what's through the glass but for faces, dark jagged faces leering through the glass. The patient doesn't relent in his shrieking claims, his feet hammer against the metal floor. The grate burns, but I don't focus on each pattern boring into my skin, I fixate on the end of the hall and a door, brushed by the soft white light. My toes dig into the large gaps and the arch of my foot feels ready to splint open. I'm nearly on my knees by the time I reach the light, and collapse all the way. Pain cuts through the back of my skull. I smell cinder, I swear I can smell the crematorium still on my soggy wet scrubs, hot and dusty.

I manage to raise my head enough to see a blue door beyond the threshold. A bleak haze coalesces out of thin air, dark and boiling, agitated and unforgiving. I freeze, my hands draw the camera up to my chest. The shape is nothing human, barely a fog. The whirling cloud fades from sight, grinding in the air as it trickles down, and down.

"No! NO!" I can't see what the patient is doing; I'm folded under the migraine, my elbow raised over my eyes. I can feel his steps through the metal bars as he runs, the vibrations dwindle. "Walrider! Walrider!" His howls echo, and dissolve under the fuzzy crackle.

I tighten my grip on the camera until the plastic whines. The shade, the Walrider, rasps somewhere in the space below; there's familiarity in that place, I see a long red streak between the walls. I listen to the twitter – always akin to chains rustling and clinking – dragging, slipping, throughout the open gap beneath me. Gone.

I don't know if this was real or not. It's not here, now. That is all I'm certain of.

The tenor peels off the clammy atmosphere, the hot sensation in my skull recedes. I push up to sit, the cool wall at my back, and stare at the door waiting for me. Close. Too close. I'm still here, a little less alive. I guess. I swallow back the taste in my throat and try standing. My stomach aches, and I lean a little over as I hobble.

Hungry. That's the problem. Even if that sandwich was safe and edible, I wouldn't have been able to keep it down. Don't know how long I've been without actual sustenance. Something warm, smooth, and bland; like soup or crackers. The thought of food makes my gut churn. Lisa didn't cook too often, but when she did she usually outdid herself. It was a special occasion thing. We'd been living on fast food and box meals, but she had unique ways of spiffing up cheap dishes. I hadn't gotten the hang of cooking; busy with the boys, work. I wanted to make it up to Lisa.

I figure out a way to make crossing the grate floor bearable. To the side of the floor the grate fixes into a cement space, which is snug with the wall. I can balance on it, sort of strafing but not quite; protruding sections of the wall cause me to totter out onto the thin threads, they slice into the arch of my foot like sharpened razors.

The threshold is a gateless fence, and forces me to step off onto the grate floor. I gather my resolve, and stare into the dark hall below. I'm not solid on if or not the shade hadn't formed from the shadows itself, or how it worked. It found a more suitable target. If….

A breath of light slipped down one side of the wall, as I passed through the last segment of the corridor. I struggled and skipped as quickly as I could, in short bursts of speed until I reached the door. I pulled myself around the door into a darkened corridor, the light from the side I left seemed cut off from where I was entering. I pulled the door shut after me, and edged close to the brick wall nearly falling when I crossed on the grate; the pain shot up my leg with hot fury. I was delirious with pain, hardly willing to spare the energy to focus on where I was going, or what could be ahead.

By some small mercy, the grated floor ended around the next corner, and I could set my feet down upon solid, cold blocks. It still ached to force weight on my feet. Down the corridor was a door, with a bulb burning above it. I made my way to it, only stopping when I reached the end of the corridor. The corridor branched off to the side where it was shrouded, out of the lights reach. With the camera I could see piles of boards left and a large container set behind the gate. I sat down at the rim of gentle radiance and wait for some of the throbbing heat to seep out.

I lose track of time. That's how it went. I sit by the wall, prodding my toes and heel. Under the thin layer of grime, the skin is clammy and grungy. My feet are stiff and the foot with the scrape is swollen, I'm certain; I can feel the steady throbbing of blood coursing through the veins. At some point I move to the side wall, with the windows, and peer up into the muddled glass; in the distance is a faint shimmer. Outside.

I don't know where I am, or where to go. I can scarcely recall where I was last. Dark, wet place. I shake my head and press my gritty wrist to my eye. Head hurts, feet hurt. How much further can I go? When people return to clean this mess up, will they find me? Do I… want them to? Everywhere, so many corpses.

I have so many questions. My answers are disheartening. They don't care. No one does.

Except Lisa. I can't stop. I have so much to tell her. So much to do.

The hinges creak as I push the door open. I step out into the dark chill, fumbling at the collar around my neck. The wind picks up, leaves whizz by and the tall weeds dance hauntingly in the green blaze of the camera. The frigid gale cuts through the damp half of my scrubs, and I miss leaving behind the shelter and minimal safety.

The spongy plant stalks feel good under my feet, and the bitter scent of the sap fills my nose as I inhale. Directly in my path is a pit, and without looking I already know it's filled with standing water. A high fence blocks the open grounds off to one side of the pit, the perimeter is illuminated by lamps – one light, across the open dugout. From where I stand, a ladder is visible on the shallow mud, but no dry path to reach it. I follow the fence, but it boarders the entire gaping trench. The fence hits the side of the building I exited, and in the corner near the door lay one from security; crumpled into a muddy heap among leaves and shredded weeds.

The guard had a camera off all things gripped tightly in his hand. I pry the camera loose from his cold knuckles and check for batteries; two. One refreshes my own camera, the other I stash away. Half life. I take that the other battery will be in the same condition.

I return to the edge of the slope that leads down into the earthy pit, and give the waters surface another search. It smells noxious, of roots and muck, and machinery oil. On the far side of the stagnant pool curl large pipes, braking from the water surfaces, then extending into the side of the ruptured soil. Wood braces were built into the carved soil, beneath the edge of the fence that encircled the ditch.

I secured a grip on the fence, and lowered a foot to one of the protruding timber slates. The wood felt loose on the soils moistened surface, but sturdy enough for my weight. The fence was close to the edge, I could hold myself up if I lost my footing. The last concern was the depth of the water, but I couldn't get down close enough to check, and I wasn't that curious.

The belt was unbuckled from my waist, and looped around my chest. I double checked that the camera was tucked away in its pouch, before I slung down and found the muddy braces with my toes. It was more difficult than I first estimated, and my shoulder had a dull but vibrant wedge of pain digging at my skin. But enough light filled the side of the trench from the lamp at my back; even if strange shapes were crawling at my fingertips, I kept moving as quickly as I could manage.

I was stabbed by a wire. It comes to me, while I idly try and recall why my arm hurts the way it does. I dismissed it as sore muscles.

A piece of wood broke from under my foot, and splashed when it hit the water surface. I paused to listen for the wind, and other sounds it might cloak.

The lamp went out. The bulb cracked, like a small explosion. I heard over where I dangled, fingers slipping through the tangle of mulch. I turned my face towards the dark blanket that now swallowed up that side of the pit, in time to see water cascade upward in a glittering cloak like miniature galaxies. Something hit the water! Something was—

I lost my hold. Rather claw at the muddy edge, I let myself fall and break the surface with a hollow gurgle. The floor bottom was muddy, and much closer to the surface than I anticipated. I dropped to my knees, and felt something strain in my body as I struggle not to collide with the oily pool. On my knees, my chest and the belt were barely above the surface. My notes, my batteries, the camera. I let out a small sigh, and choked on the rancid vapor swelling in the still air.

Grinding. Something grinding, or scraping, through thick metal. I remember that sound somewhere, but I don't remember where it was. Walls of plaster and plastic, and the slow dragging; claws. Freddy Kruger coming for you.

I stare towards where the lamp was once bright, and see only the black and wavering shapes tugging at the edges of the sky. The large pipes, the aqueducts. It's moving through them. It can't reach me. It can't reach me.

I brace my footing, and rock to my feet. I'm all right, sore, but I can walk. I keep close beside the wood sheer bank and as far from the eerie rustling that I can manage. The scratching noise withdraws, but not quickly; it takes its time.

The trenches bottom begins to incline upward as I wade out of the shallows, my movements slow and in the dark I fumble about. My toes sink deep into the sludge and I fall forward, this time on a gummy shoreline littered with soggy papers, and buoyant bottles. The dim scuttling remains close, though I'm certain it's leaving. I keep still and silent until the air falls back onto the wind whistling, and the grass shivering.

My eyes adjust somewhat to the dark; one more lamp still blazes on the far side of the trench, but its light is feeble. I shove my hands out and feel wooden ledges crammed into the soil, and an icy black pipe stretched over the shore. To my side the ladder isn't far from where I've fallen, and glistens amid the black nothingness. The ladder leads up to something flat, I don't recall it is was a catwalk under the light, or what sort of platform I missed. Another shape dominates the backdrop above the flat above, but I can't make out what it is from my vantage.

My feet persist to sink into the icy mud as I tread along the shore, and it's borderline impossible to climb the ladder with mud slicked feet. When I reach the top I find the catwalk, and drag myself across the knobby grate. I crawl across, toward an open gate on the catwalks side; I'm drawn to the light and the open, somewhat civil yard waiting. I don't have it in me to set my feet back onto porous metal.

The platform stretches along the side of the pit and dead ends at the fence enclosure on either end. I sit on the edge of loose pebbles, eyes feverishly searching through the brush within the yard, while I unsnap the belt and fix it back around my waist. I grimace when I bring up the camera, and read the indicator that my battery was spent. My hands shake too much as I try changing the old battery out, I drop the fresh one and have to pick it up and clean the dirt off its side before putting it into the infrared attachment.

.

The yard is overgrown with some of the tallest grass I've ever seen. I intentionally ignore the lamp and the broken gate, and hike across the yard towards a door blazing under a lamp. It dawns on me that I'm on the other side of the fence, where I'd seen the man, or the shadow. My steps slow as I get near the inactive gate, my gaze lost on the other side of the yard from where I was chased. An unpleasant odor is on the air, one I thought was familiar. It makes me shudder, and as I turn the camera down I understand why.

A scorched body lies in a bare patch of grass, beside a padlocked gate. I can still smell the char and burnt flesh, curls of mist spiral above is blackened shirt. The voice rings in my head.

"_Mine! Mine! Mine!_"

I run across the yard. Not away from anything specific, I just want to run and feel like I'm escaping. I stand across from the gate, the base of its door cut and bent inward. My arms tighten around my waist as I slink towards it, my focus touches over the tall fence, the overgrown branches thrust through the lattice links. Behind the fence stands a tall tower with a bulbous top, the angry sky swirls above it forming all manner of shapes across the clouds. The shadows huddle at the base of the spherical shape, above the colossal heap of reaching brick.

The back of my thoughts wonders, but I don't know if I have climbed so high today. I remember the glass room, images inflicted to me, gates and skulls. I don't know if I climbed so high, or why I would wonder why I had not. I crouch and slip through the opening, checking first by the blazing lamp on the door inside. The path under me is cement blocks, cracked and torn up by roots—

A bundle crashed into my path, less than three feet in front of my nose. It cracks, and everything inside the sodden sack settles. I twist onto my side, after I hit my back into the underside of the bent fence. It takes a moment for me to accept what it is I'm looking at. I've seen dozens today, in so many different ways. Sliced, ripped, twisted…. So many people.

It's a man tangled in a straightjacket. Blood is filling the cracks in the cobblestone under his shape, and a foul scent lingers in the air. I press my nose into my shoulder as I scoot sideways, upwind of the body. I stare at him, unable to process his appearance. As if there's a lapse in my memory, and suddenly this body is here bleeding. It drives chills down my spine, unnatural sensations I don't want to dwell on. I turn my gaze up, wondering from where he had fallen. Was this real? Or had he wandered up there by mistake? He looked almost normal, most of his hair had fallen out. But what was his mentality? Was he lost, or did he come to an epiphany that he was too lost? Too… far gone?

"_It would be so easy. I don't believe in it any more. Getting the truth out. There is no truth, only lies we've accepted too long to double back on._

_It's our children, Lisa. I would take the easy way out if it wasn't for the boys. Damn this place to hell, I'll suffer anything to get out of it._"

That's all I had left. I've come this far, gotten through the Cannibals kitchen. Amid the shrieking chaos and death, the all-consuming insanity; I lost sight of what would salvage me from the brink. I didn't have the right to forfeit my life, because I gave myself to someone already. I'll get out. I would make things right.

I tucked the notepad to my stomach and wrapped my arms around my legs. I leaned into the weeds woven behind me, and tilt my head back. The wind picked up, tussling my collar. At the backdrop of the bulbous mass far above, a flash of light pulsed behind the clouds. The edges of the roof slates and stretching walls briefly illuminate, and fade. For a moment I forgot I was enclosed in this yard with a corpse.

* * *

**It's all downhill from here folks.**


	18. Chapter 18

**The Offering**

It's this scratching in my thoughts. Like something winding and twisting behind my eyes, and rubbing at the interior of my skull. I think I remember the days when I was overworked, exhausted; ready to collapse. Days like that were far into the past, I don't hardly remember what it was I did except… fix things on a computer. I press my face into my sleeve and try holding in the convulsions.

I was overworked. It happens, and things get forgotten. It's in me somewhere, I'll remember, but it just takes time. I ignore the distant voice whispering beneath the turmoil, about the possibility that too much was taken out of me.

The yard was not large, a few feet across. Open sections to either side of the tower were blocked by fences, the interior alleys were cramped with dense tangles of shrubs. I checked, though I had set my path on the door gleaming under the light bulb. The door stood open when I left it, and creaked as the wind heaved throughout the interior of the tower.

The interior floor was despairing – gray walls, frigid air – it cultivated drafts, mist, and sorrow. I wanted to drag my mind away from the decrepit scenery, find sunshine and life; transport my psyche from this place. Something to keep me going on, drive hope like a sharp spike through my heart and warm the glacier buried among my bones. Heat me up, keep me mobile.

The floor of the watchtower was icy and coated in a thick layer of rust, and whatever else had been left to dissolve into the foul puddles. It was a challenge to keep my legs working, cold seeped through muscle and bone, the soles of my feet ached like coals had peeled away the skin.

I shut the door behind me and breathed in the rust, the metallic permeating the atmosphere. It was polluted and I could only stand where I was so long breathing and surviving in the grunge before it began to pulse in my skull. Nothing was off on the side of the tower, its center was dominated by robust steel pipes, the frame work around it reinforced by steel scaffolding and wood. A flight of steps rose along the inner wall of the tower, spiraling into the haze of some light cast from above.

I took the rail as I began up the flight, rising and rising. I try revisiting what should be fond memories, people I should enjoy and appreciate. It astounds and frustrates me. How is it I forgot the faces of my own children. Boys. I knew they were my sons, both them. I tried to envision their smiles, did they have my smile or Lisa's? Or, did they have my eyes? They were mostly me, I decided. They were my boys, they'd look most like their father of course. Such a possessive thought, it made me smile despite the dreary creaking of the steps. This is all right, I'm doin' good. I could hear Lisa cheering me on in a... gentle tone. She had a soft side; that little thought made my throat croak.

Chains hung from the walls, and the steel structure strung around the pipes. The chains were huge, heavy anchor links swaying on the dark shadows that wove through the walls. Water speckled my side, and I cringed away from the icy beads. They fell from some broken pipe high above; some pipe that transported water to… the basement. The line was compromised, and the area smelled of mildew and dank corpses. I saw no bodies and concluded, it was only the foul rags soaked in the puddles below. The light brightened as I came to a level, and in my path lay planks braced before a cracked and shattered section of the catwalk. The foul water from below had scrubbed away the fresh mud and blood, but the water was no less polluted than whatever I had stomped through all evening.

The jump was daunting, the planks pinned to the floor felt loose and I was uncertain if I would slip if I moved closer to the edge. I sat on a stable patch of the wood panel, and collected water tapping against the leveled rail. It was frigid and stung in my hand, I had no idea where the water came from, but it felt cleaner than what my feet were caked in. I took out the notebook and ripped a clean page in the back free, and used it as a makeshift scrubber.

I listened to the water trickling from the shadows, from pipes and down drains and thought of summer showers. Lazy days when the kids couldn't go out. I wanted that image in my mind, staring at the gray clouds through a fogged window. Rains would pass, puddles would stay. The rain cleaned the world, the trees, and the grass, and there would be flowers. Don't splash in puddles, you'll ruin your shoes.

The boys. I think… they wanted rain boots. Bright, rubber rain boots that they could wear special for the occasion it rained; for the boys rain was still a new and exciting spectacle. Yes, I think we had this argument often. They wanted the rain boots, but our budget wouldn't cover two pairs of boots, so neither boy could have rain boots. It frustrated us, Lisa and I. There was always something in the store the boys wanted, and we couldn't explain budget constraints to them.

Rain, rain, go away. Come back another day.

Pain pulsed up my spine when plywood, and stumbled forward onto the bare grate. My leap had been perfect, but oh god, I hadn't accounted for my weight hitting the choppy metal. I fell to my side; the camera snapped out of my grip and skipped toward the steps that continued in my path in a bend. I watched the camera tip over, and stop beneath the first step.

Idiot. Forgot I was holding the camera. It was my life support, my shield— more than that, if anything happened to me, it would redeem what I had done.

"_Stupid, Mr. Park. More than stupid, in fact, that was crazy_."

"Shut up, Blaire." I stuffed my mouth into the crook of my arm. I said that out loud.

The water prattled over the metal side, its mist dabbed the side of my cheek and neck as I heaved up. I crawled forward and put my hands around the camera, then leaned back on my knees and stared up; up and up and up. Steps spiraled into the canopy of despair hanging over my head, dissolving into the shrouds of oblivion. The sooner I reached the top, the sooner….

I fiddled with the course strap over my hand, and try massaging the stiffness out of my knuckles. Sounds came from elsewhere, somewhere. Below, maybe? My padding steps slow as I peer over the rail, and down deep into the dank vapors that consumed the floor. Was that the door, opening and shutting? I thought I shut the door. I soften my steps and focus. It's probably all in my head; though, I'm not sure, nor am I not comforted by this idea. It doesn't mean I'm crazy – high strung, yes, but not crazy. I'm alert, and focused on my hostile environment. This is all healthy behavior for a person in my situation. Healthy thoughts, normal.

I ignore the soft burble in the sane sections of my brain that warned, distance would be my only measure. It was here buried in the soil, and the only cure was escape. Not cure, the only path to recovery, the best therapy I could receive was time. The rest would come eventually, and I would heal.

The battery dwindles to a quarter life, but the black splotches that break up the glossy patterns of the ascending steps keeps me on edge. The spiraling steps tremble occasionally as I climb higher, as if the bolts in the walls are barely adhered in their mooring. I hasten my climb, all the while my mind conjures up dark shadows creeping along the winding stairs beneath my bare feet. I try to see over the rail with the camera, but I never catch more than the swirling cancer of abandoned shadows.

My feet fall hard on level surface, and I drag up the last step. The spilling water clatters against the spinning walls, like a hammer beating at an anvil. It's somber in its own way, akin to pitter-patter of blood smacking carpet – carved out bodies tossed aside, tables coated in sticky viscera, gas spewing and men screaming behind windows. The pungent scent of bad air, and long dark halls hiding corrupt science, death.

I lean hard on the rail, my knuckles bright luminous and trembling under the shadows. My breath comes in tight wheezes; not from climb. I can't immediately recall what was in my mind, and I don't chase the thought. My focus grapples with a stray gust of air, fresh and tinged with… pine. It's only a snatch of it, and then my senses are plunged back into rust and mildew. I can feel the tease of a breeze around my neck as I move along the rail. Around the bend stands a colorful ladder beneath a lamp. I stagger to it, and secure the camera in its pouch before I begin to take the rungs. A few feet to my side the catwalk ends, and over its side before the distance robs my sight completely, I can see the shadows winding up the stairway along the edges of the lamps below.

The upper ceiling of the tower is filled with the large semi-spherical shape of a dome. Water drips from the underside of this mass, the icy liquid slides down my shoulder and backside. I twist and duck as much as I can out of the waters trajectory without losing my grip. My breath wheezes in my throat, and I start up a coughing fit.

This is too much. The sharp digging vexes my shoulder like a spike, but I manage to haul my body over the top and flop over onto my side. There are no guardrails encircling the inner walkway of the tower. I can't recall what it looked like from the outside; only that it's a tall, looming structure challenging the sky.

I push a little more away from the edge and stand, a little unsteady. The rust coated structure directly at my shoulder is familiar to me now. I'm no expert, but I decide it's a water tank. The water tower of Mount Massive, back in the days before Murkoff. The compromised lines could be spilling water, and generating the sounds I hear in the acoustics of the tower. Nothing but my nerves and sound effects. I exhale. This doesn't put me more to ease.

Large murky windows coated with crust are fixed, to the inward curving wall every few feet. I follow the walkway, somewhat leaning on the wall at my side. I taste the fresh breeze and see light, breaking through the shattered gap of a window frame. The sharp, crisp air rolls through, heavy with the rich fragrance of rain and ozone. I stagger into the frame and grip the edge under my arms, and use my free hand to lever my body over the rotted sill.

Now beyond the heavy atmosphere of the tower, I take a moment to swallow deep hearty breaths of the thin air. It was invigorating, raw and clean; this couldn't compare to my brief encounter with the fog. Above the grounds, above the soil saturated with pain, sickness, the sinister nature of these grounds was easy to forget. There wasn't much to see from way up here. I stare out across the thick clouds and dust kicked across Mount Massive's territory, and listen as the wind carves its transparent girth across sharp stone. Where I stand now, it didn't feel as if distance had been tucked away, but… no. It felt like miles had been crossed. I was miles more away from this place, miles closer to recovery and redemption. Something real, I could feel it. As I gaze across the dark clouds, the wind snapping at my limp collar. This WAS progress. I knew I could keep going, I would. I would….

I coughed at the dust and at the bite of fresh mist. The storm is coming. They called it mountain air, that's something someone told me forever ago. It was a long, long time ago. There was a bright flash, and I fully expected the sound to be accompanied by a crash or boom, but a long time passed and no meager utterance. Only threats, delicate and silent, but omnipresent and patient.

The disembodied sigh came from the musty window at my backside, prompting my alarm. I was out in the open, damp and cold with a storm underway. I moved away from the window, my eyes straining to see through the vapor of what was visible below, but there was no great view to behold. Hardly the smoky trails of shapes, and in the distant a few shacks or buildings, but too far to consider as a potential destination. On second and third glance, I was no closer to a direct conclusion of where I was now, or where I had come from.

Suspended high in the sky was the misted glob of a beaming full moon. Beneath its weary light, shapes shuffled meekly under the dust in the distance. I see roofs, maybe tall fences. I can imagine a world of chain link fences lined high with barbed wire, with no route, no escape. But the dust sweeps away the image, and I see towers with tall spires. Everywhere, the hulking masses of mountains shoulder the dark sky, an impenetrable wall shielding the world from this awful shadow in hell.

The grated walkway comes to an end, and appears to have rusted away naturally over time. Planks of wood line the floor, but the rail and what remains of the circular path are gone. I see a roof, and the side of a wall a distance from the broken catwalk I stood upon. It's a far distance, but that's all it is.

I turn and follow the curving path, to see if the other direction has more to offer. As I follow the grate, I feel my internal compass twist and when I reach the predicted end of the path, I see that I've gone in another circle. I have no solid path. But as I stand, buffeted by the strong gale, I find my eyes reaching across the grounds… I bring out the camera and steady it by my face. The image in my head began to overlap with memories, pictures – snowcapped mountains, the deep forests swelling, and at the center of it all.

The sharp towers and the spires stab skyward; lights, even from the distance, despite the dust on the wind, the bright glare of lights glitter like dull candles behind heavy curtains. I squint my eyes.

When I first walked up the lawn, I looked right up at those imposing towers. Mount Massive was notorious for the twin spires, they were the key landmark of the property. And pinned between them was the front doors, into the main lobby. The Administrative Block. That's where I was standing, with Lisa. Lisa was there with me, sad to see me go, but it was necessary. We agreed. What did we agree on?

I stumble back from the shattered end of the broken rail. We agreed I would stay here. And we left, then, she brought me back. In the truck. God, I wish I could feel my sons. I know they're there, in my memories. I can't find them. I don't want to disappoint them; return to them as someone else. I just want to go home.

I take a few minutes to sit and read through the resignation notice once more. The wind snags at it, but I hold my fist tight to the page, going over each word carefully, engraving it into my mind. Lisa would fight for me, it would only be right if I fought for her.

I fold the note up carefully and bury it in the pouch pocket. A heavy flat of plywood extends over the break in the circular catwalk, and down a ways but clearly visible is the edge of another walkway, atop a slanted wall; no barbed wire or fences, just a crudely built pathway upon a wall, rickety and outdated.

I use the camera, remember how to zoom, and scan over the visible rooftops. It looks childishly simple if I was willing to leap from rooftop, to rooftop, but I didn't see why it couldn't be that simple. I zoomed more onto the distant backside of the twin spires, and examined the back windows of a wall; one window looked shattered, but I'm not certain if I was seeing right or if the turbulent winds made the glass and frame seem empty.

I moved close to the empty edge, and while holding the rails end, I judged the distance. It was an open leap, but the ledge I planned to reach was a few feet down; momentum would deliver me over the distance. It was built onto a tall wall, the side disappeared behind a wooden structure or building. But to the top ledge, I could make it.

I stuffed the camera into its pouch, and moved a few feet back from the slab of plywood. "_Don't hesitate. Run, and jump._" The wind skipped along the stone wall around me, and another silent flare bloomed far in the distance beyond the monoliths of dark ice. I grit my teeth as I barreled into the sprint, my feet sizzling. My shadow raced back up into my ankles as I rushed the edge and sailed out, high above the yawning gap, stretching under me the higher I sailed through cold, open air.

The wood snapped under my weight. It held, barely, and my heel skid off backwards, the rickety walkway whipped out of sight as my arms smashed over rough timber. My elbows unfolded and before I knew it, my fingernails were digging into the grainy wood panel. I swung like a pendulum in open air. S-shit. Holy... I took a breath and inched myself up, despite the protesting ache blazing in my shoulders. The ancient nails screeched in their nest, in my fingertips the board jerked, nearly ripping out my elbow socket.

A small cry snapped from my throat. I pressed my cheek over my shoulder and gaped down, and down, along my dangling side. Not far in the distance, a compact courtyard was nestled among the brick walls, with a single tree bristling naked beneath the bright glimmer of standing lamps. I couldn't see directly under me, I only looked far enough below to see my toes kicking at nothing.

I push one foot out, and press my blistered sole into the rough slate. The plank cracked as I forced my body up, gaining leverage by an inch. I'm not… I'm not giving up. Not here. My fingertips dug into the rotted wood as it creaked, rusted nails giving out one after the other as they gained weight, and lost anchorage. Just a little higher, hold out… a little longer.

I remember pushing the radio off the crate and watching it fall, down and down, towards the heavy smog swarming the pipes. At the very heart of the pit, where the light burned just so bright, I heard the radio crack. I thought, "_A shame it fell. But I guess no one cared_."

_I'm sorry. Please, forgive me. I—_

The board shatters under my grip. Down, down, down….

Down the drain we go. All of us.

As I stare up at the swirling clouds and the bright flare of a distant storm, all I can think of is Lisa. Her smile, and how fogged and distant her face has become. I scream, but it's more of sorrow than fear. My arms thrash above at the dust and leaves. I need a hold, a structure to ground my scattered thoughts too. Keep whole what matters. Instead, I plow through a brittle structure which shrieks and whines, before it gives out completely and I'm swimming through dirt and debris. I'm sputtering at the dust, unhinged from my arms colliding with a surface that is unyielding – a cold sturdy floor. Somehow, I miss cracking my head on the rim of a nearby bucket, and flop over. Sawdust and jagged planks rain down over me. I lay on my back, gazing up through the tear in the roof. Soft gurgles rise from the back of my throat.

How bad am I? Is anything broken? My wounded sounds are muffled by the unwavering paranoia distilled in me – be quiet, don't draw _it_.

The remaining section of ceiling above is crisscrossed by random wood beams. I blink. A sound. I heard it, but I can't focus. I drag my body over, whimpering minutely, and slip an arm across my side. Pain begins through my lower body and backside, but it's subdued by distraction. Nothing feels broken. I prop my body up and lean over, I feel nausea well up inside me, but it passes. After some slow, careful breathing I'm able to detect more of myself. I'm numbed, banged up, but there's no blood. The dust starts to settle thick over me and the floor, a broken chunk of timber tumbles to the floor as I begin testing my limits. I can't believe… can't believe I survived that. I sniffled at the dust and blink. Where am I?

A large table, scaffolding, stands close by my side. I crawl over, and haul myself up by the wooden legs. I'm certain now, I can hear faint sounds. Human voices, after so long? Not wild with insanity, but calm and converse speech from an intelligent tone of… voices? It can't be.

"…don't need any sisters. Maybe some… some girls that ain't blood."

When I put weight on my left foot, I limp and drop before I catch myself. Hurt. C'mon. I have to be able to get up.

"You ain't old enough to be worrying about it."

I try to divide my focus on the voices as I test my foot. The first speaker was odd, high pitched. Feminine, with a country lash. It was odd to hear a husky woman's voice here. I tried my foot and found I could put pressure on it, but it was sore. Must've sprung when I hit. The floor creaks subtlety as I take another step, and I halt.

"We have worser problems," he stuttered.

I stumbled towards a wall of planks, or slates of wood nailed up in a row that formed an outdated style of wall without covering. A row of slates were knocked out between two beams, forming an opening in rooms side that I could peer out from. Beyond the portal was another wall built of thin planks, hammered across the gaps of the two-by-fours that connected the upper ceiling beams to the cement floor. The bulb dangling from the ceiling swayed in the coursing breeze, but I could see out a ways toward another wall, built of termite infested wood. The second voice came from that direction.

As my eyes studied the large gaps in the planks, I caught the slow movement of a silhouette. I fought to get the camera and get the zoom to work. I think that was the second speaker.

Where had the first voice come from?

I pivoted, heart pulsing, fully expecting the other ones to be right behind me. No one was there; I searched the room over, I stood at the only entrance. I cough a breath, and inhale the grimy atmosphere.

"Grow some hair on your pecker, Timmy, then we can talk about girls."

That voice was aged. A father? Or someone looking after him?

"I hear something I swear," he snapped. "Everybody. Just quiet the fuck down for a spell." I remained frozen beside the torn opening and listened, but the voices faded. My mind wracked with questions and dread.

This made sense in my head. Like the low tremor in the air, rolling on my thoughts as I worried over the subject. Who were these people, and why were they here? They sounded familiar with each other, but they were patients. Or weren't they? Was it possible vagrants had found their way into Mount Massive's property, on the outskirt of the main grounds? That seemed possible, but the woman there. I loosen my grip on the camera, the thought occurred to me but I didn't want to explore it further.

I was supposed to call for help. Fucked that up, too. The overseers were still out there somewhere, blind to the disaster. But why would they care? No one else did, not even the guys stuck in here. If we're all infected— nothing survives here. Power, electricity, the sane, they're consumed by the madness.

Except Blaire. Nothing in him had changed, by perception. He bargained with people's lives to warrant safe passage; his lineage was depraved and proud of it. Like placing bets on fighting dogs. Hungry dogs eat the hand that starves them.

Occasionally, I glance up at the ceiling from where I'd fallen, as I move around the musty room. It's more of a spare closet, but the space doesn't seem utilized. The wood scaffold shelf mid center is piled with boxes and junk, in one corner a few long boards are propped up, and the boxed in area itself is lit and by the lone bulb, above. Somehow, there's still power. I… didn't shut it all down.

I steady myself on the shelf, and skimmed the camera over the back space of the room. The way the light cut away, it was like an impenetrable wall. There was more of the same wood planked wall, with a door set into it. The door may have been unlocked, but a wood crate was crammed to the front of the old door, and I couldn't budge it.

Dust kicked up as I moved around. I pressed my nose into my damp sleeve, and shuffled toward the only opening out of the room; the floor around the doorway was littered with cracked plywood, some of it from the ceiling. There was no sound beyond the 'doorway,' only the wind bristling through the gaps in the walls. I shivered; the thin rags hadn't begun drying, and were unbearable. It was tempting to stay where I was, rest and pull myself together, but I didn't feel safe. The break in the wall was the only way out, and in. The voice, I saw someone behind the wall across from me. He didn't sound friendly. None of them did.

My hand fumbles for an opening or a pocket on my jumper, but I only have the belt with its pouches. A sheet was pinned to the wall, adjacent to the threshold I stood. I crossed over to the cloth, and tested from where it hung with a firm tug. The cloth was home to an assortment of insects and several layers of dust. It was heavy and stiff, and resisted my efforts until finally, the fabric gave a terrible growl, and the fibers snapped free. I tore off a small fraction, enough that I could slip over my arms.

The hinges on a door creaked somewhere.

I hurried back to the open slot in the wall, and searched with the camera the next room. The voices remained silent, but I heard the door shut. I'm sure I heard it, I wasn't imagining it. Someone was wandering around, and I don't know where. They didn't know I was here. No, they couldn't. But the commotion of my entrance was not missed. One indicated he'd heard.

I crept through the thin opening and kept beside the wall as I turned the camera, listening. The walls were slanted inward, reminding me of a vaulted attic. I had fallen through the ceiling, into a spare room. I don't know where I am, I didn't see where I was falling down on. I try dredging up something relevant about the area I had looked down into, but the only segments in my memories were of those shapes crawling beneath the burning moon. I breathe through my teeth, and I tighten the scrap of cloth over my shoulders. It's better than nothing.

A tall wall of the planks stands before me. I study the green gleam of the camera, the slanting walls of a large attic interior report back. There's light beyond the open gaps of the wood, I can hardly see in without my eyes burning. Another storage room filled with rotten forgotten bits of this place; a wooden rail encircles a flight of steps that descend into a dark pit.

I stagger around the room, navigating around the pillar supports and tin canisters left behind. It's small and nearly impossible to get lost in, but there is no clear direction. Off in the corner between the spare room and a slanting wall, I spy a dark opening. It's a corridor along the room, some light filters through the porous wall and blazes in the cameras visor. I lean a little on the flat side of the wall, and into the meager press of the light as I move toward a stack of beds.

It's still there. Creeping through my joints, ragged icicles thawing as my blood warms under the shroud. It feels like years ago I left the howling sirens, but I still feel their beckoning call. I'll never be free of that sound. And somewhere in me, some dark corner of my mind, would miss the furious den. It meant too much to me. Meant I was alive, meant I was lucid, however little of me was left. Somehow, I was still me.

I slip over the moldering mattresses, cautious of the boxes left upon the surface. The springs creak under my weight, but the sound is muffled and pitiful. I clutch the ends of the cloth in one hand as I devote my right hand to the camera, and view the tall framework of shelves as they surface around me.

The shelves are filled with boxes and buckets, rusted canisters with no label. Doors are stacked on the bottom shelf of the nearest frame. I lean sharply to my side, where the wall encroaches on my space. I hear sounds, more than the incessant twitter beneath my toes. I'm not sure what it is at first but I don't stop, I just keep quiet as I creep among the maze of shelves.

There's an open space at my side, and a door between the tall stacks. I get as close as necessary in order to reach out and try the handle, but I'm almost certain it's the door from the shed. I don't know where the door might have led, it didn't matter. I slip back into the shadows and peer up with the camera, into the high rafters of the ceiling above.

My mind keeps insisting I don't know where I'm going. I'm lost in this place, I don't where this is. Old, this place has been abandoned for years. In a way that's comforting, but it's a short reprieve.

Something clatters to the floor in the dark. I can't see what I've knocked over, only I had reached for a shelf when I turned the camera, and couldn't see what I had nudged with my hand. I stand in silence for a long time waiting. It's suddenly so silent, I can't decide if something had fallen or if it was a trick in my head. I breathe out a soft sound, and snort at the dust circling (most of it attached to my shroud).

The open path of shelves turns towards the lit room, and a dead end. The slanted wall beside me is dark and still, I feel no draft. There's no way out on this side.

A sheet hanging from the wall beside the shed, blocks some of the light from where I stand. I try and think where I need to go, what I've missed. I keep in the open area beside the sheet and guide the camera along the upper shelves rising under the vaulted ceiling. I wince, the board under my foot creaks. A moment passes, the oppressive silence judging the random spat of calamity that seemed so meager to mortals. I slip back along a shelf, following the open path between structures.

"If we had a visitor," a woman's voice mumbled out. "If we did. He could be our goat."

I crouch down staring into the haze of the light from of a connecting room, where the glistening surface of a window awaiys. The shelves are in the way. Why would I want to go over there?

"What in creation are you talking about?"

The older man's voice was followed by the softer, broken voice of the younger son. "She just likes to hear herself talk."

I couldn't see anyone from where I was, perched on the dusty floor. I shivered and tried to retract my body further under the scrap of cloth, but it was too short. My body ached, to cold and stiff, wounded. I shouldn't have rinsed my foot off.

"We need a goat," she went on.

There was a low space between the shelves, where a few boards had fallen across. Gently, I try moving the cracked plywood slats aside. Somehow, I make no noticeable noises, aside from the timid rasp of dry wood sliding. They already know I'm here, they suspect. They won't shut up!

"There's reason here," said the older man. I can't stay here. They're looking for me.

"To bear our guilt. Our gender," said the woman.

I crawl out beside a misplaced door leaning on a shelf, paper crinkles under my palm as I pull myself out from the crawlspace. The room I enter into is sizable, but cluttered with furniture left to decay; shattered tables, chairs. Now closer to the window the light feels transcendent, despite the grunge coating its surface. For a scarce wild moment, I believe it's the light of day blasting through the nightmares. It hurts to let the delusion melt away—

"A small piece of flesh between us and the blade," she murmurs.

I creep close by the door, toward where I believe the voices have risen from. I crouch beside a large sheet of warped plywood and stare throughout the framework that holds together the walls. I toggle the zoom testing the texture and the shadows seeking what is not, and what doesn't belong. The voice tumbles over brittle timber, the network of wood and rusted bolts groans against a forceful blast of the wind; as if the whole facility might topple. Then utter silence asserts dominion, but it's thunderous, the unequivocal absence of echoes. The piercing ring that persists in the void of resonations thickens in my mind, trampling natural thought. I don't know, can't figure where it was the voices lifted from.

My shoulders shake. I can't stand, and rather fight it I surrender to shuffling along on the floor towards the window. Through the gaps of the wall beside me, I see a figure turn towards the shelves and is speaking. I think it's one of the men, the elder man. There! There! The father, maybe. I hear his voices, the satisfaction it exhales sends me into a recoil. "You want to give him to Gluskin."

"That's the idea," she answered.

I know where one them is. One. Two others. Where? I tuck down, rather search.

"I don't want to get Gluskin's attention," the timid voice stuttered, from the walls.

I back away, fighting to turn the camera and my gaze off the figure as my feet – behind me – bump into loose rubbish scattered through the dust. I get up, hunched down, and pay close attention to where I set my feet. My internal thoughts scream at me to look up, don't get distracted. Don't let them creep up, while my attentions absorbed.

"He'll hurt you," the older man sniggered, his drawn out chuckle thickening. "You'd make a pretty woman." I think he's the one I saw. The stature, I don't know. I move close beside a row of shelves, away from the large windows with the deceitful light pouring onto the floor. It's a tight space between the slanted wall and the shelf, but I'll be spotted in the light, no doubt.

"No sense in pulling a mad dog's tail," he stuttered.

"We feed him a goat and leave him alone."

I can't avoid the light. The shelf ends at a corner in the wall, beside the window that allows vibrant light to drench the floorboards. I move close to the window and lower the camera, some of the furniture is notable under the bright illumination. I'm certain there's movement behind a calamity of furniture, father across open sections of the room. Reverberations travel in odd patterns beneath the ceiling, it might be my feet shuffling in the dust. I don't hear the voices. A lot of the furniture is crammed on the side of the room, beyond the windows revealing glaze. Smaller tables, a few desks, bookshelves, and chairs; all are stacked under an open archway, which appears to be separate from the other side of the room I left.

Under the line of tables there's a bare space, large enough that I can crawl. It's safest, at least I'll be covered and hidden. I wouldn't let myself consider how much of a disadvantage I would be in, I just wanted to get out of the open.

Beneath the tables a few chairs had been crammed under on their sides, like hit deer bloated on the side of the road. I never liked to see a dead deer on the roadside. I push a stack of boxes aside, and wrestle the scrap of cloth around my shoulders. There's so much dust kicked up – it's in my eyes, clogging my throat, it glitters in the visor of the camera – a million lost souls swirling perplexed in this dank space. I stop and fight the grim in my eyes, until the scratching has subsided enough that I can scoot forward without squinting.

Two thick pillars are set to either side of the furniture maze, corralling off the tables. I can stand, but stumble a bit when I rush too much pressure on my tender ankle. I adjust the camera in my hand as I lean on the frame of a shelf loaded with crates, and listen at the piercing shrill of silence filling up my ears. It's a challenge to concentrate, I struggle to dredge up the danger I'm hiding from, the things that I fear. I don't want the shrieking wail, I want nothing but the complete absence of void. Where am I? Where am I exactly?

A land of shelves and frames, and wood work, and platforms. I brace myself to a thick square pillar, and move carefully among the walls, listening for the settling dust and the dark slither through the cracks. Alive, it's like the shadows have become an entity all of their own, moving of their own will; preying on the weak, the deranged, whoever cannot fight back. They drain them of everything, until there's nothing left of the person before. I think maybe that was what they were looking for, and then they unleashed it.

I'm trying not to cough as I step out, away from the confining walls of the shelves. The room has opened up, and not far to my side the wall slants. I still think the interior of an attic, but I clearly remember falling _down_, through a ceiling. It doesn't feel right to think of this place as an attic.

Large crates line the walls, the shelves that are built across from them are filled with cardboard boxes, a few rusted tools, but most of it are empty containers forgotten in storage. Like the people subject to the experiments in this place. Like me.

I move around the next corner, among the endless shelves. They're usually set up near and around the thick, wood support beams of the ceiling. That's where the slanted walls end, bending inward as the walls rise overhead and connect to the large beams that run along the center of the roof. I touch the thick beam as I slip between it and the shelf beside me. The open space beside the slanted wall was clear enough, aside from a few empty barrels that dotted the floor. Across from my position, boards had been nailed across another open space, where a few more barrels sat within the shelves.

The batteries power was getting too low. When I crouched beside the plywood nailed across the room, I fumbled with the camera in the dark. Locating the pouch was second nature, like turning pages in a book. I opened the pocket and felt for the battery, still in the complete black and in the calm; the humming, the sound of my heart thudding.

I prodded the interior of the battery slot, and felt the spring that the flat side of the battery was placed against. I didn't breathe until the blaze of the cameras green visor filled my eyes; momentarily I was blinded, but it passed. I stared nebulously at the wood nailed up, bordering in the space behind it. I slipped under the plywood and found nothing – no doors, no crevices of safe passage. Between stacks of doors I could make out a hall a yard or so over, bed frames were left leaning on the walls, and large crates had been stacked carelessly onto the backs of furniture, leaving only the remnants of wood piles to speculate what the ruins once were. The higher shelves to my side were filled with boxes and containers, some had the appearance of half melting.

I thought I heard a sound as I turned, stepping carefully back to where I had entered from. I spun around, frightening the strange shapes with the tint of the visor. Nothing there. It wasn't a voice; I thought it was a whimper. It might've been me.

But I can feel a presence. The blackness had mass and rippled like water, whenever I moved my position was made known. The ones that sought me, followed the direction of the ripples I disturbed, and could pass through walls to pursue. I clutched the scrap of cloth tighter around my shoulders and I crawled under the boards. I fought to reduce my disturbance in the black tide, go unnoticed.

I jerked my head up when I was clear of the boards, and saw ahead that my path might end at more shelves. The clutter that filled the levels looked familiar, and as I stepped closer I thought the shelves nearest to my side, I thought I must be right. I spun in place gathering in the scenery, the slanted wall to the ceiling I had looked up to above. I've gone in a circle.

I go back the other way, rather go around the way I went before. The shelves are assembled in the middle of the room beside the thick support beams, slanted walls on both sides. Crates. Shadows. I set my hand on the rough wood of the rectangular pillar and lean as I turn the camera, as if suggesting a new perspective will fabricate my way from the shadows themselves. I take a few deep breathes, the dust makes it painful to breath. The shroud over my shoulders is falling a bit, and I wrench around grabbing for it; that's when I see a wide space at the center of the room, between a pair of shelves I moved past thrice, at least. Careless or me.

A noise lifts from the dark sides, where the green tint fails to reveal. Shuffling, soft noises. It's a sob, something that is human, and that fact terrifies me. I linger at the tight space between the shelves, scanning over the visible gaps among boxes and ghostly buckets. There's nothing, not even insects.

I push aside some of the empty containers jutting between the shelves, and open enough space to wedge my body through. I don't hesitate, I keep the camera stuffed to my face as I slip silently between the course frames. Steady. Don't disturb the rippling cloth.

"A gift for the groom." The voice came from thin air, nearly an inch from my face. I hold still for the longest time waiting. Waiting for cold white hands to stretch from the shadows and snare my face, drag me away; back to an black and icy world of vacuum and discomfort. Only torment and regret thrives in the void, consuming hot blood and skin.

A splitting crack ignites my skin. Something has fallen in the dark, and the abrupt calamity shakes the walls and rattles the foundation all over. Voices shriek at me, horrible screams and agonized sobs of people dying, the monsters they've created are set loose to run wild, all screeching over the gale and down through the jagged trees bent beneath the howling thunderheads. I cower down in the narrow space, but my legs slam against the cold wood of the lower shelves. Stunned I jerk away – and tear back from the howling sirens, men cackling behind steels doors; boiling red lights swim in the back of my skull. I'm haunted by the piercing shrill of an inhuman manifestation, struggling to exist in mortal man's domain; its ferocity so acute it peels flesh from the base of my neck— I feel the ragged scuffle of fingernails. Blinded, I tumble out from the side of the narrow space, disconnecting my body from the hellish sounds.

The dust swirls thick in the visor of the camera. I crouch beside it, in the corner across from the narrow passage. I hear nothing, but for the distant and placid whine of wood as the wind works. I'm clutching the filthy rag to my chest. It's quite for some time, but for the rising thudding in my head. I try to take control of my rasping breath, but with the thick atmosphere I can't stop my ragged gasps.

So close. She was so close. I know she was. She'll hear me. They'll find me.

I put my hand over the camera, and bring it up to my chest. The foul cloth is pressed over my lips and nose, it helps hush the whimpers. I'd rather keep my eyes focused on the black space just over the green tint of the visor rather than glimpse revealing window, shredding through the black cloak. I don't want to see. If I can't see her, she can't see me. That's the rule I always told the children. Go to bed, close your eyes, then the monsters can't get you. Before you know it, the sun will be up, but not until you shut your eyes. I sang it, or maybe that was Lisa's song. I can't remember if she sang.

The shelf creaks as I use it to pull up. I barely pause as I hoist my body up, shuffle my feet along. I make a shabby effort of flipping the cloth over my shoulders, I'm jittery and reluctant to jostle the air. They'll feel I'm here.

The dusty drape settled over my neck, mostly, but that was good. Hesitantly, I take the narrow passage, the camera focused on the open end where a large shelf stands in my path. The additional shelves lined up remained cluttered, some snapping apart at the nails under the weight of the burden of supplies – metal drums, buckets. I navigate through the winding path, a right then a left; I rounded the end of a shelf, and came to the slanting side of the wall. I leaned on the edge, studying the lone open side of the room. Light peaked through in the distant, piercing the heavy murk. It looked like a light, beyond the endless shelves ahead.

I couldn't get through the shelf to the window. At my side the room became vacant of obstruction, and I could step out into an uncluttered chamber. I was on the backside of the shelves that had blocked my way. A clunky ladder was braced by the thick support beam and shelf. I inched closer to it, the ladders sides were blotted with rust and grease. I reached my hand out to touch it, but stopped. My shroud was slipping off my shoulder. The ladder could be useful, and I could think of a dozen unique uses for it. But to drag it along, it would be heavy and make too much noise.

At my back stood stacks of crates shoved under the slope of the wall. To the side of the small space I stood, a few of the large shelves lost their battle with time, and collapsed. I skimmed over them with my eyes as I stepped by. Beyond the edge of a sloping wall was a window, fixed in a vertical section of wall.

I struggled to grip my mind on this, what importance it was. I crept away from the safety and clutter of still standing shelves, loaded with a long ago decade. There was a bedframe with a mattress beside the window, a few additional musty mattresses lay across the floor or shoved behind cracked and dilapidated rusted canisters. Light from somewhere beyond my world gleamed through the murky glass. Vaporous blankets of dust swirled in the lime tinge of the light, failing and rising, and repeating in this cycle. I could see shapes, faces of people I hated, the leering mugs of those I need to forget.

I didn't see Lisa. Lisa didn't haunt my thoughts. Thought it would comfort me, to know that I did remember her face. God, Lisa, in this place…. I want, and yet I can't. I don't know what I want. You, the boys; I need to see my family somehow. One more time before I die. Even if they're dying illusions, false phantoms fabricated by my diminishing thoughts… it would be enough to salvage my soul. Redemption. Redemption.

Redemption.

Redemption. That's what I wanted. Redemption. Take back all the evil shit we did on this soil. Heal the wounds that incited the massacre. What was… the computers. I debugged system programs, fixed the pieces of the engine that tore people apart. Worse than death, worse than living with this revelation. Forget those parts. Get away. Find a way.

That was why. That's the only reason why I'm left alive to suffer. It's what they meant. I remember those two, the twins behind the fence; a maze of fences stretching, forever into the haze of my malformed memories. I remember them, in the cold air of the fog, and the mangled counting thrust through the dreary league of fallen clouds.

"_We all must endure hardship_."

"_His journey is not complete._"

I don't understand what they meant. I set my hand on the rough wood of the frame beside the window and lean into the light, until it blazes into the back of my retinas and fills my skull with hot silver. They were insane, what could they know? But to accept the lie hurt me more than the fear I had when they spoke. The experiments took so much out of the subject, and what it forced back into them was worse. They knew too much for what insanity allowed. Knowledge was a sin. Scrub the sin away, then I would be free. I don't know how this is the answer.

It's my fault all of this happened. My fault I'm still here. It's why I can't find the way, and the reasoning of why I can't escape. If this wasn't the fact, I would have found a way to freedom a long time ago. My fingers dig into the cool frame of the impervious window, my arms ghostly in the bleached light. I'm shackled by sins, and that is the only rational for why I won't allow my sanity to die within these walls.

* * *

**There's no turning back now.**

**The man behind the window is actually the man in the mirror. You see yourself reflected back, and the truth of it destroyed the good man a long time ago.**

**Thanks for reading.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Lemme take a second out to apologize for the lateness of these chapters. I hadn't realized its only been like TWO FUCKING YEARS since I started Whistleblower. So... been awhile. Yes. My fault. We will fix this.**

* * *

**Voice of Sanity**

His eyes surfaced first through the thick gloom, sparkling keenly against the contrast of his blunt white shirt. I kept my distance, eyes locked with his but sharing nothing between us; his gaze was cold, focused elsewhere; on a place that existed beyond sanity and rage, hunger or sorrow. Beyond death and fact.

Shelves peer through the gloom, witnessing my measured approach of the figure. Briefly, I wonder where above the rope is attached. The side of the course fiber absorbed the gleam of the cameras visual, giving the impression the corpse was suspended by nothing but a thread of light. I spin carefully to the walls at either side, braced with shelves and stacks of boards, sometimes doors and slates of broken wood. A putrid scent rises from the corpse. Despite it, I move closer and peer up into the eyes. The front of his shirt is blotted in dry gore, and blood at some point had spilled from his nose and eyes; I think his ears have bled, but I don't scrutinize the side of his head as carefully. His eyelids are partially open, and I wonder, what was he looking at before he died?

I pivoted and gazed at the window at the far wall. Cold light spilled over the floor, and the musty mattresses beneath the window frame. I see the faces, I see his face, cold eyes stare at me with recognition. I bolt back, smacking into stiff arms as I stagger backwards, heart rate stabbing. I keep going until my lower back collides with a hard, sharp edge.

"_Back inside. Like the harder I try to escape the deeper I get. Dead men aren't a surprise any more. Suicides seem wise._"

The rope creaks as the body sways. I watch it without the cameras enhancement, and wait for the air to still and the disturbance to cease. Wind moans through grieved cracks in the walls, timid shadows loiter in the gaps around him and I; creeping in and slinking back like the muddy line or flickering waves. The sight of it is disorientating. I listen to the dry groan of the rope grinding over splinters, try and stay focused on these haunting sounds. I thought I heard voices somewhere behind me, but when I twist about nothing is there. Soon, the air is still, and I'm satisfied to believe I had imagined the secluded discussion.

The cold surface I sat on was some kind of the gym equipment, the kind you're supposed to raise yourself over by gripping the hand prongs. I forget the name, though I know for certain I've heard it before. Lisa liked the Olympics; it wasn't my cup of tea, but she liked the gymnasts and knew of the names of some of the equipment they used. She could've told me.

I set my hand upon the clean spot on the saddle, and push myself up. I should have a question for her, for when we're reunited. An ice breaker, let her know I came back unscathed. A lie, yes, but it'd rekindle her hope in me; make me more approachable (I didn't want to say terrifying). I'll ask her, "_What's that thing gymnast's use? The one where they hold onto the handles and do wild stunt, with their legs swinging around under them?_" She might think I'm insane anyway, if she doesn't laugh first. That probably won't be my first question to cue on. "_Where are the boys?_" It might hurt her to sift through the tidal wave of excuses. I would understand, but she might not believe me. I—

A thunderous calamity ignites. I fold down behind the saddle thing, and strain to pierce the dark with my eyes, my mind strains through the sounds that rocket across the ceiling. It's a crash – something hitting, some upheaval of shelves toppling over. The vibrations rattle up my feet and hands pressed into the dust. The echo fades, leaving a dull whirring in my thoughts.

My breath wheezes in my stuffy. I pull myself up by a shelf, and give my perimeter a short look over. The sound came from behind me, or in front – it's impossible to discern. I need to get out of here, find a door to the outside and Escape. Help wasn't coming. Can't lose myself here. Not after I've come so far.

The camera crackles as the green tint blazes in my eyes. I find my shredded sheet not far from where I fell, and drape the stringy edges of the sheet over my shoulders one handed. The dreary hues of my flanking surroundings recede, until the black walls press close into the cameras invisible beam. My path reaches a dead end made up of high shelves filled with forgotten supplies. I move among two shelves loaded with boxes beside a stack of doors, and begin poking at cardboard boxes and some of the rust coated canisters. After some examination, I find a few slates of plywood crammed between the shelves, which I could be lean out of the way enough to make space for my body. It's a tight fit, and other items such as brittle plastic containers and stacks of two by fours need to be scooted more back from the shelf to make enough room. There were books in front of me on the shelves, along with a few binders and folders. I croaked as the dust hung in my throat. The scrap of sheet was slipping off my shoulders—

"Quiet." I jolt between the shelves.

What looked like a face, hissed at me. It hovered within a narrow space in the row of books in front of me. He was mangled, scars and tattered flesh held the eyes and teeth in place; he smelled as bad as the hanging corpse, and I nearly gaged aloud.

"If they ca… If they catch us," he said, snuffling through his malformed nose, "they'll give us to him. The man downstairs. The man…." He leaned towards me and directed a finger at me, as though accusing me of being that man. "Very bad. Very, very bad… god…. Oh god…."

I didn't realize he was gone until his thick sobs faded off, somewhere beyond the dim clarity the camera offered. I pulled my arm over my shoulder further, and tightened the cloth around me. The shelves ended at my side, but I was reluctant to move on yet. Who did the face refer to? The father? The voices referred to someone else. I shook within the shelves, against the shudder of the slats over my head.

I lean out from the shelves and examine where the disfigured face had retreated, and the space behind me. Boards barricaded a small opening that would have led straight into this side of the room it left my backside guarded. I moved out of the narrow space and knelt close to the slanted wall, and scanned forward. There was no movement or indication of anyone lingering in the dark crevices of the room. Through the obstruction of wood and broken walls, a bright bulb burned in the distance overhead. It bombarded the green visor, forcing me to turn back into the seclusion of shadows.

I moved to the side, where I had thought the man had gone. The space from where he addressed me was through another large shelf clear of forgotten storage containers and books. If he really wanted to he could have crawled through the opening, but that must've seemed like a bad idea. The sounds of his sobs had died away.

The shelves braced beside the bookshelf contained a few other items, some tubs and buckets, a mattress leaning on the shelf. I navigated among the jagged tears in the shadows, sometimes bumping into the constraining quarters of the shelves stuffed with disintegrating rubbish from years ago. Through the compromised tears of shadows, I could view the high slates of wood planks that made the impassable wall. Beside the slanting side of the room was a small opening, its appearance discomforting. The cameras night view cut through the clamoring shapes beyond the frame. I approached the access, the light concealed by the walls twisted and convulsed. I pause at the opening, waiting for the light to find its proper place, and peer within the narrow path. The wall separated me from an open room from where the light beamed; I was entering into a triangular crawlspace that ran close to the vaulted exterior wall/roof, and the outer wall of a room. I dithered at subdued murmurs, a raspy cackle – the chatter harassed my numb senses.

The floor whimpers as I slip into the crawlspace. I glance back, in the process nearly toppled over the box left in the path behind me. Globs of dust spirale upward as I stumble; I give myself time to wheeze into my sleeve before moving to the next narrow opening within the rectangular passage. It takes some wriggling and disregard for the scrubs, but I was able to squeeze between the thick pillars. I leaned on one side of the wall, the parallel walls induced claustrophobia and were hardly wide enough apart for me to face them head on without tilting one way.

"Rats in the walls! Kill the rats!"

A sharp pressure burrows into my lower side. I lunged forward, skimming the corner of a pillar. The passage filled with the groups shouts and hollers. I clutched the sheet to my side as I forced my legs to move, without running face first into a wall. The crack of his weapon over the brittle plans shot through my ears, I was tumbling back towards the way I had come as he followed.

"He's here!" the younger one spat. He strained to speak clearly. "Inside the walls! Kill him!"

I ducked as one of them thrust a weapon through the gaps in the wood, nearly scraping my scalp. I could barely pick up on the footfalls matching my panicked steps. For a moment, I couldn't see where I was going, the camera had been lowered as I tried to hold the sheet to my side. Only the distant light flashing over the chopped walls offered any assistance, and I was able to identify an obstruction in my path before I drove into it at full force. Thick pipes and some heavy cables filled up the path before me.

"Fish in a god-damn barrel."

I staggered sideways, flailing away from the wall the group was smashing into. My shoulder collided with the wall, but I kept going, a dry crackle filled my ears as the splinters at my shoulder erupted. I hit the floor with one hand, and beyond all possibility didn't break my wrist. I gagged at the dust, body tense, but the sounds of hostility faded at my back. A last insult cackled out on the frigid air.

"This idiot wants to die."

The camera scrapped over the wood as I shuffled forward. Shaking, but silently, I moved a tall dark edifice. I was back in the heavy veil, and half forgot the camera strapped to the hand that I used to crawl with. I was scarping along slower than frozen molasses, my head still smashes into a shelf, and managed to knock me down. I lay for a moment as the soothing void enveloped me, and dug around in my thoughts as the soft murmurs of the humming returned. I just waited, allowing whatever ravenous specter that found me to drag me back into the bowels of this world.

" _You're in too deep_. _How can you hope to escape, when you're this deep__?_"

It was difficult to get up. My head ached, and I wondered if the bump had done any fresh damage to my mind. I pulled my weight up along the rocky structure of a shelf, thoughts rummaging through the static scramble of my head. The shelf was cluttered with boxes. I moved around the frame to the box nearest to the edge, my hand brushed over the top flipping a lid open. Inside the box was a stack of sheet coated in silt and a few binders. The shelf and slanted walls of the building were obstructed by furniture, chairs and other outdated pieces. I glanced to my sides confused as to where I had come from exactly. More boxes and broken furniture lined the path that I left. It was easy getting turned around, and I was losing my way.

I stumble in the dark, with only the camera to guide my way. I stumble and wince at a wispy creak, when the floor gives under my weight. Twice lost, I'm certain the shelves I strafe by I've already passed, all the levels filled with crates and boxes begin to repeat. I'm trapped in this maze, looping perpetually. Until I pass by a wall built up by the planks of wood, and there the repetition breaks. My steps slow as the shapes under the far off light dissolve. I stop beside the corner of a shelf and look down. Carefully, I pry back the filthy sheet from my side. There was no blood, no visible wound, it ached minutely.

Warm breathe wheezed from my lips. "_Thank you, small minded intervention god_." Honestly, I had thought I… hadn't had much longer to go. I never saw what they carried, what it was I got jabbed with. It could have been worse.

I flexed my ankle before creeping around the shelves. I fixed the scrap of cloth over my shoulders, and for the first actual time, I appreciated the meager little protection it offered me from the sheer draftiness of this place. My scrubs were drying out, they weren't much protection but the dampness was painful.

Beneath the light stood the clutter of wrecked furniture half collapsed, shelves, and gym equipment. A metal cabinet was shoved across a ruptured space in the wall; the planks were splintered, some remained whole and hung off by twisted nails. I moved out of the light, keeping near the furthest wall. This portion of the room was densely cluttered, the shelves were suffocated by boxes and large crates to the point I couldn't see between them. I shuffled by thick pillars, papers scuttled under foot, sometimes sticking to my sore soles. At the end of open path a herd of chairs came into view.

I stop beside the pillar to my side and watched the chairs, fearfully. They reminded me of elementary school chairs, too small for adults. That may have just been a trick of the light in the cameras. I want to believe that. The idea of child fashioned chairs in this place, it made my skin icy and quiver. No… I don't want to think of it that way. No…. Please.

I stumbled away, towards a corner of the room. The base of the wall was smooth cinderblock, beneath the typical wood structure. In the corner was a bed, and beside the bed was a nightstand with a folder upon it. I moved closer to the bed, it had a few dingy sheets crumpled over its surface, a pillow….

And a teddy bear. A small, oily brown object that seemed to be melting into the steel bars it was leaning back into.

Did I ever buy my boys a teddy bear? One for each of them? I can't think of why I would, can't fathom why I wouldn't. When they were infants. What was their first toy? Just think. Try and remember. What would I give my children for their first birthday? WHAT?

I can see the outline of the bear in my hands. I sit on the bed, wholly focused on its fuzzy silhouette seated on my lap. I'm absorbed in its mysterious tragedy. How did I comfort my boys? How did I make the monsters flee, and bring them happiness? I was always the hero. Able to shun the nightmares. It felt like an illusion. I lied to them without meaning to. Lied to them about everything, about monsters, my work, coming home – everything.

I throw the toy aside and drop my face into my hands. I mutter something, but I don't hear words. I cry. It doesn't help; I feel worse diving into this all-consuming despair, giving into futility and repetition of survival. "_I'm sorry, Lisa_." I remember that. "_I'm sorry, I fucked up bad._" I take the shroud from my shoulder and wipe my face on its filthy cloth.

I notice the envelope on the nightstand beside me. I don't remember it being there when I sat, but I don't remember sitting either. I take it up as I turn around, backing away from that dark little corner. The chairs remain where I saw them last, behind the shelf. They're all sideways or stacked on top of the other. I hurry back to the comfort and revealing touch of the light, and tea the envelope open.

_"From: n_wolfram_ _murkoffcorp_us_com_

_To: f_ford_ _murkoffcorp_us_com_

_Subject: Dissociative Dennis_

_Dr. Ford,_

_I conducted another interview with your patient, Dennis, this afternoon and have to agree with your suspicions. In the course of a forty minute interview, I had a wide exposure to all four of Dennis' expressed personalities, (as near as I could tell two brothers, their father, and their grandfather.) They seem primarily concerned with some life-threatening flood, though there was little consistency between the event having already happened or threatening imminent arrival._

_The clarity of his delusion, and performative nature of the personalities' expression certainly suggests malingering. I admittedly fall in the Furstenburg camp of categorical skepticism of the Dissociative Personality Disorder. But Dennis's case seems clearly invented by an attention-seeking patient, more likely symptoms of gross narcissism and obsessive compulsive disorder. Continue with shock therapy._

_Sincerely, Dr. Wolfram"_

I skim over the note, then reread it three more times, slower and slower on the next reread. Dissociative personality? I don't understand this. The depth of my comprehension falls onto a kind of mental disorder, but what 'patient' of Mount Massive wasn't without mental flaws? The note the Dr. Wolfram wrote described something of multiple personalities. Two brothers. And their grandfather.

Dennis.

The voices snap forth from my hazy thoughts, clear as if they were speaking directly to my face this instant. But I'm staring at the wall, the wood planks torn and the metal cabinet pressed to the wound in the wall. Three distinct voices. Two men, and a woman. A thick, husky woman. Who WAS Dennis? This… it can't be the same man described. I know what I'm hearing. There's no explanation that can satisfy this contradiction.

I leave the note on a shelf beside a musty crate, and study the metal cabinet. Behind the opening a passage extends to the left or right, but other than the blocked entrance I see no other way in. The broken wheels of the crate grate on the floor as I push. I take a moment to stuff the camera in its pouch, then brace my heel to the base of the shelf behind me, then resume pushing. I get the container moved a few feet before it stops, but there's not enough room between the toothy wall and the cabinets edge for me to slip through. I maneuver my arm blindly through the opening, and feel for anything that could hold it in place. I nearly give up, but my fingers brush over a broken chunk of wood rammed into one of the grates in the cabinets backside. It takes an excess of effort, in order to I wriggle the chunk of wood free and set it aside. The cabinet is no trouble after that, but I do stop and rest once the access is revealed fully.

The crawlspace to the right extends a few steps, before hitting a familiar blockage of pipes and cables. I went all the way around, and back again. Progress. I know the voices were on the other side of the wall, and through the large gaps in the planes I can see the familiar sharp light and the transparent walls. I don't see the group, and it's been a while since I heard them; I hope with no inkling of remorse that perhaps they had followed the poor lost face. I'm startled by this brutal train of thought, but it's the truth buried in me. I want to get home, I have a family waiting for me.

I cover my mouth and struggle not to make too much sound as I snort through the dryness in my throat. Dust everywhere; I'm trapped in an hour glass filling with sand as time runs out. It swirls in the visor of the camera, but most of it is cling to the walls of my throat. I lean beside the outer wall, away from the interior room, as my body convulses. I can't even remember what water tastes like. I get enough moisture in my throat to neutralize the hot gravel, and swallow.

The path I follow on the left opens up a little more around the next corner, but the atmosphere is no less dank or musty. The wall outer wall at my left is cinderblock, the cold permeates its surface; the opposite wall retains insect chewed boards, the planks seem thicker and very little light wriggles through the narrow spaces. The passage ended at an obstruction of thick pipes, amid a wooden frame, but my path neglected to end there. Low to the floor, about level with my knees, was a narrow break in the wood planks. I crouched down and slipped through the jagged teeth, without catching one part of me on the hazard. Once I cleared the opening on the other side, I tightened the cloth over my shoulders and took in the room.

I stepped by tall shelves braced back to a portion of wall, the levels cluttered with containers, boxes; a shelf I pass close to is barely held together by its nails, it's ratty construction shudders under my gentle touch. The floor is littered with broken crates, mattresses and bedframes stand slouched at the wall to my left; the air was saturated with a foul scent. I decide it was the bed fabric. It's been some time, I can't recall how long, since I've been subjected to the rot and neglect of the main building.

Light winks out at me as I turn the corner of the wall. It loiters in the distance above an obstruction of tall scaffolding or shelves, shoved back and standing in the way. The levels are full of crates, boxes torn open. In the rafters a rope dangles, tempting anyone that found themselves too lost to continue their doomed mission. I moved to stand under the shelves, staring up at the harsh fibers catching at the golden blaze of the lightbulb suspended, not far from the ropes. It was tempting, oh so tempting. I look away.

"There's a leak," he stammered. "Pissing down on us. Water takes everything apart." I can't decide from which side he's on. The walls, the interior walls? No, I came from that side. I whirl in place, following my predicted path through the passages, and the break in the wall from where I entered. They're following me. I can't be following them, I—

"Cry about it." She says, mocking. I creep into the shadows, stumbling over stiff rope and rotted sheets scattered on the pallets. The wall between the shelves is rickety, built from stacked wood planks. I stand under it and listen, struggling through judgment. Where are they? I see nothing around me through the revealing glimmer of the camera, just gaps and the clutter of shelves and tall frame work. The skeletal interior of some enormous mummified prehistoric damnation. The voice stutters, from somewhere far from the others and timid.

"Down on us," he goes on, "from the sewer. That puts us…."

"You want to shut him up?" The older man snarled.

"More than anything," she said.

There's no other way to go, and this uncanny creeping on the back of my head warns me that these people are nearby, if not behind me. With a short hop, I grip the base of the shelf and brace my foot in the grainy wood. I jam the cameras strap between my teeth and drag my body up. The muggy timber whines as I pull, and grab at hand holds. I nearly fall backwards when I grip at a piece of rotted wood, and it snapped right when I was nearly over the top portion of the assembly. I snatch the edge, and inch up little by little, until I'm stable atop the lowest shelf. It sways under me as I roll over, onto my side. Above with the tassels of rope, dangles lengths of chains tangled up in the high beams. I lie there under my cloth shroud, and stare. I shouldn't watch ropes, but I can't help it. My breath won't settle.

"We have an interloper." He growled, voice hard. My blood freezes, and I press the camera onto my stomach, trying to melt down into the cold wood pressing at my back. They won't find me. I refuse to consider that at this time, I lie beneath the harsh blaze of a bulb. There isn't a reason for them to look up.

"You hear things." She insisted. Yes, he does. I closed my eyes and imagined myself nodding. Keep arguing.

"Water and time could drill a hole in anything." He stammered. The others are not paying attention.

The older man snapped, "The hell I hear things."

"Paaw!"

The older voice continues with his rant. For some insane reason, I'm smiling. "The lot of you may as well be a pile of whelped possum. Tiny, pink, and deaf and blind. Go find yourself a possum titty."

"How ain't you dead yet?" She muttered, with convincing disbelief.

The man's voice continued. "You're idiot and cowards all of you. The shame of my loins." He must be the father. He must be.

It's quiet for a long time. Forever. It's enough of a security, and I'm willing to turn over further and peer down onto the floor. It's cluttered with an assortment of trash – pipes and wood, broken crates, rusted cans, flattened boxes – amidst the small scale landfill, a shelf stands proud, the shelves all cluttered with broken furniture and plywood. By appearance, it looked like the same scrap wood used to build the tall walls that blocked my path.

Carefully, and with my attention always diverted to the walls, I lower down from the safety of the shelf. A cold metal bar shifts under foot, and I froze as it crackled beneath splints of wood. No vocal irritation came from the family. They moved elsewhere, took their argument with them. I'll believe that.

On one side the shelf lay stacks of pipes, color coded with oranges and some pale greens, all faded and rusted from the long years. I didn't risk invading their territory, they might crumble into a shrieking mess of agitated mushrooms. Whatever they had planned, I wouldn't upset pipes lying placid. I moved along the less cluttered side of the shelf, the warm light hugged tight to the bare back of my neck. I set my toes down carefully, avoiding whatever looked sharp or unstable, but without fail I always felt something painful and icy jam into my blistered soles.

The temperature changed drastically as I returned to the thick curtain of black. The light withdrew from my shoulders, and dimmed quickly. A pallet lurched under me as I kept moving, to a door set at the top of wood steps. It looked like a porch at the end of some grand garden, quaint and welcoming. The steps held my weight with no protest. The doors knob twisted loose in my grip, and I pressed my shoulder into the course wood beside the window. Through the distorted glass of the window, I could view a sturdy shelf braced behind the door, stacked high with metal containers and canisters. The door clattered against the shelf but would move no more. I left the door and lowered off the steps.

The shadows revealed no eyes, no hostility, no unaccounted movement. Just a blazing green amplified through the night feed. A faint and out of place breeze catches my senses – the fresh rain and earth stall me, and for a moment none of this room, the dust or mildew were there in my head. The sensation is fleeting, and I slam back into sensory perception. I cough into my sleeve, and pull together my frazzled senses.

Past the porch door, my path enters into a wide corridor; the erratic blaze of light glimmers through the gaps of the planks, from a light a ways off somewhere. I focus on where my feet rest, the ground is choked with discarded boards, sometimes stiff cables. On the vertical wall to my left stood a door; I check the handle, and find it rusted tight.

Shelves dot the walls on either side, crudely built and falling apart. I give them spare distance as I walk by, the floor was unstable and my steps shuddered up the brittle wood. The wall on my right slopped sharply, and near another shelf facing the wall sat another one of those tiny chairs. I flinch, and look away. Kept walking, pass it by. Not here, I can be thankful. One good thing.

The walls of wood slates continue out on either side; under my feet, the floorboards shuddered. I stopped moving, and let the winding resonance fade. No echoes threaded through the gutted walls; there came only the ever present dust, rustling in my lungs with each breath I took. The silence crashed through my ears and brought with it an eerie rattling; a wailing. The piercing howl came from the trees.

Somehow, I was back in the woods running through the thicket. Panic stricken, I seek light within the black, oily shadows. Through the tight knots of branches, flashed a blinding yellow vapor. I tear towards that, stumbling over rocks and weeds suckling at my ankles, until I reach the massive front doors. I struggle with the door handles, but they're wrapped tight in barbed wire; the light pulses at my back, causing my own shadow to stretch and morph against the doors I stand before. Through the gnarled trees branches coiling over my head, I see the elegant furniture, plush carpet, red soaked wall paper. I lost sight of the door, but at the center of the metal fences awaits a dark, sunken hole. I smell something terrible and I'm certain it's me, drenched in pain and death; absorbing too much, unable to return what I've stolen. I back away from the swishing grass, as if I've witnessed my own shadow lashing at me.

I lurch back into one of the impassive pillars fixed behind me and topple to the floor. The camera almost snapped free of my hands when I hit the boards, but somehow my knuckles were tangled in the cloth I was wearing.

No echoes escape, there persists only this suffocating silence. The distant trill is there but it's faint, like a decayed memory. No comment comes from the voices, as if they hadn't heard. The hush only confirms that they were listening, and now they will be waiting.

The silence holds for many minutes, alluding to some meager false safety. I come out of my spell at the pace I'm accustomed to. With some effort I push myself into a sitting position, and after a minute I'm on my feet. The camera defines the plank walls and unfinished rooms that drift in and through the ever persistent gloom. In a corner of the room rests a stack of pallets, between a break in the wall and a door. I become interested in a door, and bypass the broken passage.

I already know it must be locked, that's the rule. The door handle won't turn, the door itself feels loose in its hinges but refuses to collapse in its frame. Through the crosshatched window a large, open room gleams in the cameras green tint. In the rooms center a flight of steps descends through the floor, amidst a carved rail. I try and think, while my free hand moves across the pockets on my belt. There's a way out, through the Administrative Block. I don't know where I am or how to get there, but there is a way out. Yes? If I reach the ground floor, I can find a way back outside.

The door is locked. I turn back to the passage, and study the open gap; thin timber builds up the outer walls facing a room, but not airtight or confining. Through the large gaps my eyes meet with blinding light, enough to complicate the camera and make me blind in the crawlspace. I lower the camera, and wrap it between the rotted cloth folded over my shoulders. The inner room is fitted with a bluish cloth or material, stretched over the spaced planks. It's a large room, an open space with a collection of shelves.

As I move along within the tight corridor, I keep glancing through the gaps in the planks. No movement, and the loss of the voices doesn't deliver any fresh confidence.

I come to a tight opening between the timber barriers. Somewhere, distant there's a clatter, but no sound to protest. I lean within the opening, camera held close to my face, so close the green haze burns my eyes. I inch my way through the gap, and keep low. I brace my knees to the gritty floor, and check the knob of the door that greets the side of the corridor. I came this way already, on the other side of the door. I want to laugh at myself, my indirect path finds its way around.

The hall or backroom I turn into extends through the dark recesses of the cameras limited range. I slip around large pipes, with curved connecting segments that stretch overhead. Grease drips from the interior ceiling, and mud, and blood. I set my eyes back onto my path and adjust the sheet scrap over my shoulders. The planks of wood made up the walls on either side, broken but sturdy, deny my way. A collection of crates lumber into view, stacked around and stuffed into the makeshift shelves, fabricated by plywood and pallets. I don't glance their way, and keep heading for the door gleaming ahead in the cameras visor.

A piece of plywood was boarded across the door, and though I doubted it could be so firm and loyal after many years, it refused to relent under my diligent wrenching. I was willing to set the camera down in the dark and use both hands to pry at the board, but the nails or dark magic was unwavering.

I fumbled around on my hands and knees, a little unsettled by how fast the dark thickened around my eyes. I grabbed up the camera, and looked to the path ahead. Thick, round pipes stretched vertically in my path. I stepped over buckets left beside the obstruction and squirmed between the gaps, struggling to put my body through the thin opening. Somehow my chest was too wide.

It was too much a risk getting stuck. If that was possible, then this is where it would be possible. I wriggled free of the pipes and followed the wall of wood slates, trailing back the way I came. Through the wide breaks in the planks I scan through the frightening tall structures of walls, stretched tight with that faded parchment like sheets. Pale blue, like forgotten moons and once in a once. I shivered as I returned to the stack of crates supported between broken pallets and plywood.

Some of the boards linked between support beams are cracked, opening up a small space that I can climb through. If I'm careful.

I sway on my feet as I stare up. It's not high, but it looks tricky to scale. And my shoulder aches. But I'm stalling.

I shove the camera into its pack and grab the shelves, heaving my body up without a second thought. I hiss as a bad shift in my shoulder drives sharp stabs through my side. A quick adjustment, I pull the scrap of cloth over my shoulder before it can fall, and then climb higher. The opening in the wall isn't directly above the makeshift shelves, and I have to find footholds in the rickety wood planks and shuffle to the side. I'm able to put most the weight on my feet and push on, higher, and clear the opening with little effort. I wince as the sharp light leaps around the edge of the wood support. I'm fortunate I don't need the camera to see where my grips are, but the blaze is excessive, its brilliance actually makes my stomach twist.

My hand touches something cold. I secure my position, half over the wood structure, and look at my palm. A red smear. I'm not the first person through this way.

Before it registered in my ears the thick wood I trusted my weight on, snapped out from under me. My arms lash out, catching the edge of the broken wall and my body swings wild. My heels hit the floor, and I crash with an audible _Whump!_ to my side, splinters and wrecked timber ran down over me. I lay in the dust and cold shaking, stunned – trying to sneeze but I'm too winded to get a breath in. The scarp of cloth I've carried with me, drifted down and settles over my head. It's so funny, I can't stifle the muted whimper.

"There he is," she snapped. Where is she, I don't see? Has to be close.

I push myself up and turn, careful of my bruised side. I see a figure beyond, between the tall rows and half built walls. "What do you think?" I twist over more until I have both eyes focused on the stout figure that is moving towards me. Alone. A light beside him silhouettes his shape briefly, before he throws the door behind him shut. I'm not certain how to process what I'm a witness to, of what my ears are telling me.

A lone figure. And a voice, a second voice, from the same direction. I'm not being ambushed; my mind stalls on this thought. "Oh, he'll do." It's the father, or, what I had presumed to be the father. I push back over the rotted boards that had fallen with me, and move myself a few inches from the shape, accompanied by its voices, approaching. One body.

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**Getting closer to certain dangers.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Hello devoted readers! The content in this chapter and following chapters will be graphic. Please exercise caution while reading, as there will be themes such as rape, mutilation, super misogyny, and a disturbing lack of balloons - though truthfully a lot of you have been waiting for these chapters. At any rate! You have been prescribed a warning label. Nonetheless, enjoy.  
**

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**Bird of Paradise**

"We give him to the Groom," he stuttered. He STUTTERED. Why does he stutter? My head whirls with confusion, contradictions gnawing through a truth I fight to reject. I can't make sense of the scene, the maimed rational and conjectures buzz in my bones feverishly. The other voice, from his lips, replied, "For once we agree."

My back hits the solid wood of the scaffolding behind me. The steps quicken, come nearer. It's just him, one man. Three, maybe four voices, four people speak from **his** lips. The light glitters over his shoulders, his eyes tuck back into the shade of his brow. When he's seven, five steps away, he raises his arm. Clutched in his fist is a long table leg, with a glistening bulbous end. A club stricken with red, sparkling under the light. I blink at the light, the dust swirling; the breath catches in my throat in some shape of whine. The weapon cleaves down.

But I've already ducked aside in a tight roll. A chunk of board digs at my spine as I scramble to my feet, take steps. Behind me he's, screaming in the younger voice, "He's get-ing 'way!"

It's dark and I'm stumbling. I don't have the camera up, and the light doesn't reach on this side of the wall, behind the collision of tall shelves. My hand latches onto the ratty frame, a box scrapes my knuckle as I wrench myself along a row of canisters at eye level. I'm darting around corners, trying to find a hold on a shelf that I can climb. His shadow stretches up a sheet of blue cloth pinned beside me; his stride is wide, he hurries to cut me off.

"Ya'll with your younger eyes keep 'em peeled," the father commanded.

I crash into a patch of light, in an vacant side of the room. One handed I dig into the pouch, meanwhile, my eyes prod at the gloom for the lone figure. His footfalls get louder, closer, I've lost track of where he is. I don't keep where I am, but dart down the side of another looming shelf. I haven't gotten the camera up, but what I can manage is the vague visibility of my surroundings. My free hand trails the side of the nailed in planks, my fingers bump off the grainy surface of a bucket or a box. I can't see in the shadows, but I can hear the varied voices of the man as he discusses my whereabouts with his selves.

The cameras up! I found it. Got it in my hand, but I don't get the visor active. I dart out, across the bright pool of light and keep going. I stagger back from the tall figure when it appears right beside me, only to realize it's my own shadow plastered over the blue fabric. I'm shaken, but my legs keep moving.

"Would you get him already!" The women, she – he's right behind me.

I tear away, taking the only path available at my left. Something whizzes through the air, and on instinct I duck forward nearly falling. It felt close, he might've missed anyway. I regain my balance, and push off the side of a shelf and turn.

The lamps haze blinds me, and though I'm racing towards it I have the camera ready. I turned off amongst more tall shelves, fitted with boxes, junk, broken pieces of pallets, more of that blue fabric. I hobble around the long sides, night enhancement blazing green through my skull. If I can climb up, I need a foot hold and some time, long enough to get out of his reach. That weapon, it has to extend his reach at least three feet.

I turn the corner of a shelf and recoil. This time there is a solid shape, and a face coming right at me. The face glows in the green hue of the visor. I backpedaled, there's no turning around, I skip right backwards and collide the small of my back into the sharp edge of a shelf. White explodes in my mind, warping into membranes and yawning gate fronts. I lose sight of the figure when my hand drops, I'm still clutching the camera but my arms flops to my side. I can only make out the outline of blue light glistening over his shirt and scraggly head.

My rigid knuckles bunch into something at my side. It's rough, pliant, my fist drags across it and I know exactly what it is. I reach across my side and grab the cloth, at the same moment the figure raises the club above his head. The ratty fabric tears free from the side of my belt and sags around his head, when the club falls its aim is too high and it slams into the shelf above my shoulder. He curses and stumbles back, already his hand is working to pull the scrap of cloth free.

I don't wait. I drag myself upright and shove past the figure, through a soft hue of light. I have the camera up, though the lamp is nearby shining through the thin material of fabric at my shoulder.

"You lost him, you useless fuck!" She sounded mad. It's the same person.

I'm about to dash aside, but the grainy image in the camera reveals a break in the wall I would've missed. It's a few feet up, where plates of wood are torn out of the wall. I barely pause before I leap up, toes catching in the gaps of the wood. I catapult through the small opening. Somewhere beneath me, I heard her voice shriek out, "H-he got away! The Groom'll have us!"

More shelves, more walls, more buckets, rubbish, crates and pallets.

I'm shuffling to the side, towards a blast of white light filling in the small space among shelving and box clutter. I try and ignore the sharp pain in my backside, but hot bites dig into my spine with every step. I smell something, a hot malty cocktail of rust and bile, but I don't see anything that could be the culprit of such a reek.

I pause briefly and lean on the tall support beam beneath the light. My eyes water. There's a way out, I know there's a way out.

The light cannot reach beyond the walls. I stuff my face back into the camera, and guide my steps by the green highlights. I search for spaces I can fit in, areas where I can curl up and hide away. I don't know if I should risk it; if four minds can hunt more effectively than two heads, I won't have a second to recover.

"Shut up!" The father's voice. He's calm, patient. "We'll find a way around. We know this ground and don't mind huntin.'"

I pass a door beneath the light; it rattles at my back, the knob turning. I whirl away, eyes searching through the camera. One side of the room is dominated by monoliths of tall shelves and broken segments of wood, discarded pallets. I scuttle beside this, and turn in time to find another gap in the rotten wood; tall slates of plywood stand beside the opening.

Behind me, fast foot falls approach. I claw my way through the opening; this time my chest is thin enough I make it without hitch or scratch. But I don't pause, though I'm almost certain my pursuers won't make it through without an argument otherwise. I'm stumbling, my feet sticking to the cold floorboards under me.

More rubbish and broken furniture litter the floor on this side. I duck down around shattered shelves, and work my way around stacks of large tanks, most of my focus is on the floor and the hazards digging at my foot soles. In some places there are bits of wire mesh, and chunks of what looks like glass glittering in the cameras visor. I'm not as careful as I need to be, and every time I turn my head I always manage to smack it into something painful like a pipe or some toothy chunk of wood; the pain is somewhere outside my head, I'm dissociating from it.

I'm making my wall along a plank wall, when I hear the footfalls and the voices renew, arguing over the sound of collapsing timber.

"I told you both, he ain't runnin' from 'ere!" The father. But he's here, and he's on the other side of a tall shelf structure.

Above is an opening in the planks that build up the walls, collapsed or removed by someone desperate, someone that survived. I'm climbing up, shoving my toes into the gaps of the course gaps. I nearly get my feet stuck as I leverage myself up.

"You hear that?" She knows I'm right there.

I'm chewing on my lip, hard enough I taste blood and my jaws throbs. I stuff the strap in my teeth, and thrust my elbow over the first ledge. It's my good shoulder, and I have little trouble clawing my way up onto the matted cloth. Light shimmers down across the platform. They'll see me, but I can get distance, hide somewhere. The underside of the ceiling is visible, vaulted and held aloft by thick timber beams. Through the gap in the walls wood planks lay pieces of a pallet, and the edge of a bent piece of plywood. I snare the edge and drag myself up, onto a makeshift platform laid over the top of the wall.

The side over the wall is open, and the roof angles downward. The interior of the ceiling is peaked, and huge square beams connect the slanting underside of the ceiling. For now I'm safe, he doesn't follow me up the shelving, or better, maybe I did escape them. I don't want to leave my perch and crawl down, renew the chase. But I can see the stairs shimmering keenly beneath the brilliance of a lamp. Those steps, they looked familiar. Have I been on this side yet?

"Administrative," I murmur, barely audible to my own ears. I hold the camera between my hands and stare down. I'm not certain where I am going, but this will lead somewhere. A lower floor, a ground floor. I can find my way back outside.

I climb down the shelves, careful this time and savoring the frail warmth of light on my back. I drop down onto a stack of pallets, and stagger off. One of the voices leers through the wall, sluggish, ecstatic - all intermixed and euphoric.

"Here comes the bride."

He's not near me, I don't know where he could possibly be, but it's not directly near me. I jerk backwards and hit the side of the sleek rail. I clutch the camera to my chest and struggle to see through the spaces in the wall planks, but the hard light won't permit it. I'm sure I see movement, but the shadows won't keep still. Only one man, only one and he's way over there.

"Here comes your bride, Mr. Gluskin." The way he talks. It brings back the memories, the discussion he had about the goats. Sacrifices. It makes the hair on my neck stand on end.

"We give him other flesh," the voice stuttered, "and he spares ours." He was desperate. Even scared.

I moved out and away from the stair rail, and stare down into the shrouded depths of the bottom. It was calm, unassuming. This staircase left nearly pristine, despite the rot and layers of dust that coated the other rooms. The wood was carved, and looked polished and bright. I reached out for the crème glow of the banister.

"Fucking idiot delivered his own self to Gluskin's hell," she muttered.

My hand snapped back, and I pressed my fingers over the fist locked onto the camera. I tried to crack my knuckles but couldn't. The air is too cold, and I realize as if it's important, I lost that rag I was carrying. It wasn't much, it had been something. A security, if briefly. The fact that I left it alarmed me more than it should have, and it upset me.

The voices have gone quiet. They don't argue, I don't know if he's there watching or waiting. I wonder… can he have discussions inside his head? That don't involve me?

I take a look around the open room, beyond the light at the head of the steps. The ceiling is sloped low, and I lean down to get under the side between the rail and wall. There are broken pallets, stacks of crates, the remains of forgotten furniture. There very back is bare of anything solid, but for a few more files and folders packed into the floorboards. I find unopened letters and push them out under the light, where I can view their color. The envelope paper is old and stained, I recognize the stamps as being older or more. There's a whole box of them, crammed under the edge of a large crate placed at the head of the caged staircase.

I moved along the rail and stop before the top step. I want to describe it as something akin to a presence, or malevolent nature. It sits there like a deep pool of oil, or tar, waiting to drag me down. I don't think I hear right, but there is a crackling mumble sputtering forth, but faintly. The multi-personality, I think he's still around, but I don't feel like he is. If he's not coming for me, he must've forgotten. It's impossible, but I am unsettled by this abandonment.

The stairs creak under my weight. The descent is short, nineteen steps in total. My face bumps the camera as I raise it, and view the under floor that I enter into. The darkness compresses around me, familiarizing with my shape, molding around my body. I stand on the frigid ground expecting something, a face or shadow; something I can't expect. The ceiling, the floor above, retreats into the empty matter of the air and vaporizes. I can see the rafters above clearly in the night enhancement of the camera, but it's gone at the same time and I'm standing in the open, exposed in this cold and hostile environment.

I do hear something I couldn't expect, but I can't make out what it is. A fluttery tune? That's not possible, why am I thinking that?

Tethered to the bottom of the steps are taunt cables. I note them when I begin to move, they pass before the camera lens and startle me. I almost don't want to leave the steps, and the light, but there is room down here to move and hide. I can't hardly see around me. Tables, I pass by rows of tables all lined up, a box or machine of some kind placed on each table. I get closer, my intent focus directed in the screen of the camera. I know what the machine is, but I can't come up with the name. It's for clothing, it's used to glue clothing together. No, that's wrong. Clothing is attached with this machine, how is that done? Lisa would know, her grandma did something like that. It was a thing woman did.

Sewing machine! That's what it's called!

I move to the side of the room beside empty shelves and observe the room over, through the green tint. Sewing machines. I've never seen so many before, in one area. It makes me think of the revolutionary era, that time when businesses hired workers in mass to produce in bulk – dresses, shirts, suits, ties – all kinds of wear. I'd seen pictures, museums and historical documentation. I wasn't really into that, it was Lisa's thing. She humored me, and I humored her. She was determined to give our kids a firm foundation in….

I come back. I'm here, far from home, staring at rusted and forgotten machines. I have to find my way out. Figure out where I am, find a door or a direction.

A little light comes from the furthest side of the room. There's a large open arch, with tables and crates lined up along its sides. Through the dark abyss I see the faint glimmer from glass, through windows. I move away from the shelves—

Leap aside and huddle behind a wide pillar. A thunderous grind clashed in my ears; it wouldn't have been that bad if my thoughts hadn't gone back to the whizzing grind of the saw. I'm safe, I remind myself. I left him far behind, he can't find me.

It doesn't settle my hammering heart. I stare around the dark cement, but I cannot decide where the sound came from. Through the visor nothing is apparent, I see no doors, no movement. No one is behind me. I back away from the pillar, the camera aimed up. It was from the floor above. It'll stay up there, whatever it is, and I will leave it.

The ceiling is closer in the light. It seems closer, with the soft glow penetrating the gloom from the windows. I enter into the next section of the room, my eyes trailing up and down the rows and rows of undisturbed tables. I'm still thinking about the dull history talking about the revolutionary era, and my mind settles shortly on the labor laws that hadn't been in place for the kids that had to work the factories. Awful people, people like Jeremy Blaire and Rick Trager. Who's Trager? I don't remember him, but I think he knew Blaire. The name makes my skin crawl.

Kids are safe. Nowhere near here. Lisa will keep them safe, I know she will. Christ Lisa, think of the boys. If I'm gone, think of them. They're all that matters. Keep them safe. Don't let them see me. Hide them. Lie if you have to.

I wipe the dust from my eyes as I make my way across the room, towards those windows. Something lingers on the air. I don't pick up on it first, my mind supplies it's something on me. My toes are sticky with foul rot and everything else I don't want to dwell on. Instead, I dismiss the musty vapor and focus on the window. Enough light gets through the glass that I can lower my camera, but I can't chip the grim off with my finger; it's saturated into the windowpane. I try and rap on the surface, but it's hard as a rock.

This doesn't stop me from picking up a small table nearby. I stuff the camera strap between my teeth, and spread my feet on the floor. I hesitate and almost don't do it. I'm sure I hear footsteps somewhere, and mumbles and other sort of sounds. But this drives me on. If I can break this window, it won't matter.

The sound of the wood snapping deafens me, the small table is obliterated against the relentless light. My ears buzz, and I collapse to my side gripping my shoulder, biting into the camera's Velcro handle. That was a bad idea, but I don't regret it. I tried, that's all that mattered. I'm trying Lisa, I swear I am.

I push myself upright and lean my back into the cold leg of a table – they're bolted to the floor – but I won't move. My shoulder aches. I set the camera on my lap and gaze across the room, to a light blazing behind a cloth. A silhouette is visible and I feel I should know what the shape is, but it's bizarre and out of place. I try and connect something with the shape, but I don't understand why.

I fix the camera on my hand, and use the tables top to haul myself up. If someone is there, they would've heard the table scream. It's not a person.

As I move closer, I pick up on traces of that spoiled air. I reach a smaller entry and lean on the wall to my side. There is music and it's coming from this side. I wasn't hearing things; an actual song is playing. It's coming on over what sounds archaic, a record player or something. That would be out of place, but I have been looking at the little sewing machines. They don't look modern either. Nothing on this side of the asylum is modern, it's all dated and old. History.

I don't think it's safe to proceed. My feet shake under me with each step, but I need to find another way, a door. If I stay on my feet I'm making progress. I'll keep going, won't stop.

The curtain extends to the side of the room, halfway across. I keep an eye on the cameras visor, checking for cables or any other hazard on the floor. Beside the wall is a laundry basket and one of those outdated furnaces, the ones from really long ago. A shelf is directly ahead, blocking my path. I turn and glance down into the cloth basket and find nothing but tatters of smocks and dark material, denim of something. I didn't think denim was available back then. I move around the side of the wood pillar the cloth is pinned to, and stop in my tracks. After my pause, I take one or two steps towards the— it's a bed.

The smell hits me like a wrecking ball. Probably the same force I threw that table across the window. I feel the force of it now, as I sputter and fall back into the laundry basket that was behind me. I hit my head on the iron rim of the basket and everything goes black.

"_Dream therapy going too deep._"

"_Waiting in the mountains._"

Ironic. I think of that as I come to. The scratchy melody is still playing. I couldn't have been out for long, but I was out. My head pulses and my spine is twisted under me, but I think I'm okay. It takes a bit of coordination and effort, I'm sort of stuck in the bottom of this laundry basket with my knees pinned against my forehead. I leverage myself and get up a ways onto the rim of the basket, before the whole thing tumbles forward. My heels scrap over the hard floor but I don't feel it. I sit in the basket, folded in half and stare at the bed. Stare at the sheets, blood stained, the corpse bloated and propped up, mutilated beyond recognition – my mind is trying to make sense of this, but there is no sense, there is nothing to make of this but death.

I scoot over out of the laundry basket and lean over my legs, my body convulsing. I push the camera aside over the ground, but nothing comes out of me. My stomach insists there's something ill inside me that I have to expel, but it's all in my head. I lean over my arms, shaken and weak, with nothing to show for it.

The worst is what I'm thinking. For some reason my mind makes the leap back to my family, to Lisa, and I'm gagging on the floor again.

I can't stay here. It's too much to look at, to absorb. I drag my limp body from the basket, pick up the camera, and keep going. I shield the side of my face with my arm as I walk past – this is the only way I can see. The lamp by the bed illuminates every crevice of the room, and magnifies in full the display on the table. The corpse spread out, flayed between the legs and stuffed with a head. I know what it's meant to look like. Beside the table another body is suspended, dressed in the patients' scrubs and a red splattered cloth draped over his face. Ropes are rigged to his shoulders and wrists, they keep him upright. Hat skin of his hands is visible, is blue and black, twine is tied around his wrist, making him hold the hand…. Who? Who would do this?

Sick, sick. They're all sick. I need reminding, or I might start rationalizing the things I've seen.

"_A man's body, mutilated and bent to mimic or... mock the moment of birth. The kind of thing that a man cannot see without changing in some irreparable way._

_Lisa, I was with you when both our boys were born. It was, until recently, the most miraculous thing I had seen. Completely outside of reasonable belief and yet somehow central to everything I've come to believe since. You always said I was too literal-minded, tried to turn everything into an if-then statement._

_Lately, I've widened my horizons. How can the things I've seen here be? But I know the answer. Money. Profit. Things we made just because we could._"

I spare some time hunting around the tables, searching for that damn accordion music. It's close somewhere! I thought it was coming from a table where a small radio sat, but the melody drifted out of the shadows from every direction and yet was nowhere. I wonder if I was hearing the monotonous sound of jabber and song, I decided I was, I just could not find the source.

I turn the next corner and keep close to the wall. I'll get away from here, and that will be better. I hold my arm over my mouth as I pant, but that smell. It's horrible. I move along the wall, to a pair of doors dredged from the black mist. A little table cart sits before the doors, and I nudge it aside before I try the handle. The doors locked fast. Through the long window in its front, I see the next room or hall. There's light to reveal what I can't reach, but perhaps that is best. The lower side of the white wall is splattered red, above the handprints, words are scrawled in dark font.

"_Welcome home._"

I try not to think of it. I step away from the door, glancing back twice as I move off into the dark veil. The room I move through, or am in, are divided into smaller sections. Archways break apart the expanse of the floor, forming little dividers that mean nothing but to express a kind of segregation. As I step away from the gloom, into the frail light shredding through a window, the sounds of the record diminish. I can't get the chatter of the voice out of my head, even if I don't know what he's saying. Something about girls and happiness. It frustrate me, but I feel something sort of like relief that I can feel something other than fear.

When I'm barely at the edge of the light from the window, I hear a door slam. I stop in my tracks and kneel down, close to the wall cutting through the side of the room. In the distance, I'm looking through the cameras screen. I'm certain I saw someone dart away, but I can't get specifics aside from a vaguely human shape. Not a shadow, it was some other person. Maybe I scared them. I forget, there are patients wandering around frightened for their lives too. But they are few and far in between, and they have the capacity to murder.

I creep under the light, toward a slab of plywood standing vertically. It's braced between crates and the support beam behind it. The camera stays close to my eyes, and I juggle with viewing the green tint of the visor, while the light of the window interferes with its range. More windows line one side of the room, I can make out various tables jammed together and stacked. Am I hearing screaming?

The sounds fade. I can't decide if I actually heard it, or if it was somewhere in my head. That damn record! I'll tear the room apart if I have to. I'll do it!

But I don't think I need to. The cloaked side of the room is revealed in the cameras visor, but there is a lot of furniture peaked beside the wall. Tables, a lot of cardboard boxes filled with papers, some with clothing. I find one shoe in a box, but the leather is mostly eaten up by insects. I push the box I was going through, out from under the small table and slide down after it. I could have gone around, walked through the light, but I'm hearing footsteps. I'm sure those are footsteps on the floor above.

I pause beside a collapsed saw horse and listen. There might be voices, but I can't make out the pitch or how many. I know multi-personality is up there wandering around, looking for someone else probably. There was someone else, the patient that warned me not to come here. He tried to help. I don't want him to get caught either, but there are people waiting for me. Godammit, if they catch him, if he's not me, I can get away.

I peer back towards the cloth and the horror it concealed. The chatter of the record faded a bit as I moved away, my path winding around tables and pillars. In its wake was left a fuzzy whir, but not in the bad way. It felt like static but not as intense, not as intrusive. Compared to scratchy vinyl, I'd take the static.

I would rather save the battery – it's dying fast – and keep to the lit side of the room. But I am aware that the sounds are following me. That realization chills me.

Not step by step, but they are keeping stride with me as I weave and duck around shelves. I'm not making a sound, and without the camera I can't see a thing of my surroundings, aside from the dust particles kicked up. They swirl around my shoulders fading in and out, like little mournful globs. I slide over a table and lean down beside a laundry basket, and a tall shelf stuffed with boxes. I lean low under the shelf, the side blots out that irritating music. With the camera, I scan through the gaps of the items on the shelf and search what must be a pitched in black room. It sounds like someone in heavy shoes is pacing around on the floor above. That should set me to ease, but it doesn't. The fact is I know someone is near, but I can't keep track of where. They know where I am, and they are finding me with every breath I take.

I stray close to the slanting shelves to my side, near the wall of the room. The floor is clear of debris but for some papers and cloth, but nothing too hazardous. I scoot more towards the rooms middle where a table it set beside a pillar, and pick up a piece of fabric. I spit a bit on the crispy material and use it to rub away some of the caked on blood along the sides of my feet. The copper gets in my nose and all I can envision is Lisa on the table. I don't want that image in my head. It's futile, and I do more scrubbing than washing; if this could be described as cleaning. Most of what's on my foot is blood and not mud. If only I could find a storm to traipse through.

I give up, and throw the scrap of cloth aside. I stay knelt beside the pillar, one arm draped over the tables top as I stare across the room, my held dangles behind the cameras visor. Other tables dot the floor, some have sewing machines, some are guardians of frightened boxes. Why do I personalize everything I look at? That's not normal. I keep doing it; everything's got a story.

A little laugh burbles up in me, but it's flat, emotionless. I use my arm, and pull myself up to my feet. I take a few steps and stop beside the next pillar. I wait, listening, but I don't hear the sounds on the upper floor. I try popping my ears with a yawn, it felt like the pressure changed. It helped, but I don't pick up on the shuffling of shoes.

I creep forward, toward a pair of doors with tables braced across their front. The tables look sturdy, made of iron, with large tubs left on top. Two doors and two tables, with two basins. I try the handle of the door out of curiosity, and find it does turn but the tables are in the way. I go to the side of one table, set the camera next to the tub, and brace my heels to the floor. The table isn't too heavy, but its rusted feet absolutely refuse scrapping across the grainy floor.

Only a shred of light peeks through the window in the door, and it's by that glimmer that I can see how far I've dragged the table. I push it a little more out of the wall along the wall, and reclaim the camera. The handle spins loose in my grip and the door creaks back an inch, but doesn't move more than that. I lean over and peer at the floor through the green image of the camera, and find some sort of bar jammed under the doors edge. I nudge it with my foot, but it's wedged in tight. I turn the camera up—

"Darling."

I choke out a sound and leap backwards. The camera is swung from my face, and what remains visible in the murk is the face peering through the glass of the door. His eyes are fixed on me, wide and glistening. I can't imagine he sees me, it's not possible!

I take another step back and raise the camera to my face. His eyes are aglow in the visor, perfectly white and round. My heart rate is slowing, he just startled me. God dammit. Is he wearing a suit? I'm not seeing things, that is a bowtie and a dress vest.

That thought. It makes my hair stand on end, and every fiber in my being is charged, ready to bolt. But I stand perfectly still. Everything of this situation is spiraling beyond my mental grasp.

The man takes his eyes off me and glances down. Ah, the bar! He gives the door an experimental tug, jarring the ragged wood edge off the obstruction, but abandons whatever he planned altogether. Without a word, he turns and stalks off.

I let out the little breath I was holding and fold down to my knees. The camera clatters to the floor as my arm slumps to the ground. A faint chirp comes from the camera, startling me. It needs a new battery. I have plenty, about two? I panic a little as I rummage around for them; some of the interior pockets are damp. Not wet. They absorbed the water from my scrubs. The batteries should be fine, I know stuff like that. I'm certain I would remember if they were submerged, or something.

I take the cells out and blow on them. The warm breath feels good on my shaking hands, and my fingers tingle. I didn't know I was so cold. Not even sure how cold it is really, I might get hypothermia if I don't find real clothes. Where did that person get his clothes? One of the boxes the insects hadn't gotten into.

One dry battery goes into the camera. I drop the spent battery, and I find a smaller outer pocket to store the others in. I fumble at the pockets and get open the one with the notebook, and check inside for dampness. It's a little wet, but the pages of the note book feel dry. I flip through them, unfocused. None of them are reread, but when I reach the message to myself about the Prison Block and the radio, I draw a line through _Radio_. I pull out the folded – crumpled – document, the email correspondence between Jeremy Blaire and a Ms. Grant. It suffered from the water, but the words are still crisp and clear.

The only consolation I could take from the radio's loss, was that Jeremy Blaire hadn't gotten away Scott free. At least, I knew he was running scared like the others. That was hours ago, I don't know where he could—

"Did I frighten you?"

What? I stuff the note down my shirt front, and scramble to my feet. A wall stands before me, the side that opens into the next room was blocked by tall shelves, Tupperware and stacked boxes are crammed on every inch of the platform. That voice sounded chipper, and sincere, but… it was off. I press the camera between the plaster edge of the wall and the metal shelves.

"I'm awfully sorry, I didn't mean to."

I can't see where he is. Can't tell where he is by his voice alone, it carries oddly through the expanse of rooms and over the crackly noise... It's not subtle. He's talking to me.

"We've met before, haven't we? I know I've seen your face."

Closer. Getting closer. He's the guy from the door, the man behind the glass. He knows where I am! I pivot and hurry past the shelves, some tables. I find a break and cross the center of the open room, ducking around the wide pillars. He keeps talking, but I am no closer to deciding where he is. Is he over—

"Maybe… just before I woke up," he murmured, as if savoring the idea. I understand what he's talking about, I really do. Images flash through my head— waking up in that glass box, the vibration twisting through my bones; shrieking, people dying, blood everywhere. I was there, I saw all that happen.

"Though it seems like a dream now, being her with you."

I crouch behind a table in a far corner of the room, and stare at the window framed by the distant, fuzzy archway. I shut the camera off and clutch it to my chest. The way he's talking, I can't figure out what his tone is. It's sweet, light, maybe playful. I squeeze my eyes shut and crush my arms to my chest. I know— I know what's in my head. I don't want to see that, but I know it's there. The piece of paper crinkles against my chest. I know what it is in his voice that's frightened me like this. Jesus, I can't— my body won't stop shaking. Glass box, trapped in a glass box behind windows. God... dammit. No. No-no.

"Let me fill you up. You don't have to be alone anymore."

I see him briefly when I pry one eye open. He's poking around on the other side of the room, one of the large windows is directly behind him. He sounds too coherent to get distracted. Is that the shelf I was hiding behind? I can't tell, all the dark shapes of the room meld together and vibrate; except him. He's constant, conducting the shadows around him.

"You could make me whole." His voice softened. I don't wonder why. The looming silhouette is taking long strides into the same room I am hiding. "I could fill that emptiness inside you." He keeps to that side of the room, and glides through the gloom like a mottled cloth.

I pull the camera up from my arms, and click on the night visual. The man searches that side of the room, where he knows I was last. He's seen me…. before?

Very slowly I start to move, uncurling my body, crawling on my hand and feet. I keep the camera trained to the ground. The ground is hard cement, but there are loose items like papers, wood. I hesitate and turn the camera and can for the dark shape. His eyes glitter in the visor as he turns, and I nearly let out a sound. He doesn't see me, but he is listening.

My hand wraps around a cold, rough circular thing. It's small, about the size of a gear-washer. I carefully reach my arm above my head and chuck the thing into the depths of the room. There's a momentary break in my heartbeat, at the climax of perfect silence. Then, a faint distant clatter when the projectile hits; it echoes.

I keep the camera fixed to the figure as he whips about; his shoulders sway over and are framed perfectly in the cameras visor. He looks the way the sound originated. The back of his head is bare, save for a short cut hair up the center of his head. I wait for him to move off, but instead of inspecting the direction of the noise, he rotates back and focuses on my general direction.

I should not have done that.

* * *

**Waylon seems to have a problem.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Bluebeards Syndrome**

The silence is deafening. If a pin were to drop, it might rip the world apart and bring down the apocalypse. Little sounds come back, trickling along the upper currents of the room, around the inactive lamps tethered by wire. My heart throbs, beating through my eardrums.

He's humming. The man. He saunters my way, as if he knows where every table is, every corner of the pillar.

With the camera pinned by my chin, I slip under the nearest table and curl into a tiny ball. The screen of the cameras visor glows against my dingy cloth, burning through the protective curtain. Carefully, I slip the little screen shut and still my body. I can't stop the hard quivers working under my skin, or my hands trembling on the camera.

I can't see anything, save for the distant blue of the windows on the other side of the world. I can hear him though. His delicate steps shifting over the silt on the floor, papers scuttling under foot. Somehow he can see. It's not possible, but it doesn't matter what is possible or not. Sanity has no place here.

"These little games are unbecoming, darling."

I wince, and bite into the fabric covering my arm. Hold still, don't make a sound. Don't even breathe. I can't hold my breath. My lungs crave air, burn to be replenished, my head spins.

After waiting lost in the dark, his steps begin to fade from my mind. His humming – he is humming – swims after his imposing presence. I exhale every ounce of hot air into my arm, and swallow down a mouthful of the foul spoil that has saturated my clothes. I almost can't wrestle my breathing under control. The shapes and blossoms of dark tendrils pulse in my eyes.

I crawl out from under the table, one arm wrapped across my chest. I take the camera in my free hand and get it up, aim it towards the window at the other side of the room. Before I move, I twist around and search along the table tops and sewing machines— There! On the other side of the room where the door is pinned. He disappears behind the shelf. I don't chance that he can't run.

I keep on my side of the room and move, one hand outstretched catching the tops of tables, or the boxes I pass. I nearly crash into a large barrel, but swing around it at the last second. I don't think he heard me, but I won't check.

I do slow my steps when I get near the light crashing through the window. I click off the night view and look up, but it's impossible to see the way I've come from.

"Let me love you!"

He's on the other side of that shelf, I'm certain. But I bolt. I tear through the light, bypassing sewing table and shelves, the clutter and broken furnishings of the room whisk by in a blueish glare. The soft crackle of the record clambers through my ears. Damnit! That song!

It's when I reach the ratty blanket that I pull up short. I don't know where to go. The only way I know of out, or in, was by the stairs.

I raise my head to the boxes scattered on the floor. Last time I came through I know they were stacked. But I see the door in the wall, the one that was locked before, is now wide open. I dive through, and wrench around to snare the door handle. My fingers brush over the cold knob, I'm not looking at it, I've looked across the room to the blood soaked bed.

I'm backing up, trying to turn myself around and find a path. The little chair beside the blood stained floor clatters when I crash into it, but I don't stop. I shove my free hand against the wall and catch my balance. My legs are already whirling under me, and almost— Almost! I brush by a door left open ajar. I don't waste a moment in slinging myself at the door, and throw it open with my arm.

It's a large closet, practically empty but for two large shelves and one door at the back wall. I shove the door shut, and cross to the only other door. I take precious time to listen, and peer through the netted window of the door. That music! I can't hear anything with it yammering in the background!

I pull the door open and ease my body through. The hall to me left looks clear. I inch a little more into the hall, and move to the left. There's a gate, and I think I already came that way. Indirectly. I can hear that damn music, but I don't hear him. I don't take that as a good sign.

I return to the door and pull it shut. Quickly, I go over the shelf across from the door, and on the lowest shelf I find a walkie-talkie with one battery. I remember where I put my batteries in the new pocket, and add it to my collection. I'll need a fresh one soon.

A piece of paper sticks to my foot as I walk. I pin the page down with the other foot, and snap it free. There are papers everywhere, but they're not outdated. I mean, the paper is old, but the pictures are not coated in dust and forgotten. The scribbles seem fresh, a lot of the pictures—

I recoil when I raise the camera, but the shock is fleeting. A dress startled me.

This should be funny somehow. I find some sort of awful amusement in this, with how ridiculous the whole… Where am I? I'm confused, and nothing is makes sense.

I glance at a large easel, with a sheet of paper draped over it. An elegant sketch is on it of a woman, or what I take is to be a generic model with graceful curves sporting a flowing dress. Other pictures are pinned to the sheet, of other dresses, other modes. I move my eyes from the pictures, and to the actual, physical dress that cloaks the mannequin. I can't rate the craftsmanship of the dress, compared to the sketch; not through the grungy haze of the camera. But it looks like a dress. It's a wedding dress.

"_Love makes a house a home_."

I have to lean on the wall, across from the white gown. I think… it's making sense. I think. Did we… Lisa and I, did we have a formal wedding? With bells, and a chapel? I'm not religious, but a big, wonderful celebration with cake, and family; that did appeal. Closeness. Congratulations. Experience. Wasn't she the one? I can't remember how I proposed. That should be something, it would mean everything to me. Yes. Say yes. I do's. Words like consent, and trust. Love. I don't know if I remember the meaning to those words.

The dress is glowing in the gloom, even without the blasted camera latched on it. I use my camera hand to rub at my eyes. Feels like my head wants to burst open. I hit my head pretty hard. My fist brushed over a large knot on the back of my scalp.

I stagger by the dress. My feet are not steady, I shouldn't be moving. But if I stay here; he's looking for me. I hear him humming somewhere nearby, before he begins singing.

"When I was a boy my mother said to me."

He does have a nice voice. I have to admit it. And under different circumstances, I might care to listen. But he's close.

At my shoulder is open space and a gate, on the other side is a large room with bright windows, and a staircase leading down. I tug at the handle, startled when the metal door creaks in its hinges. It goes no further, and only then do I see a chain and padlock. Ahead of me windows line the wall, another gate blocks the hall.

And a door left ajar.

Against my better judgment I inch towards the door, and nudge it open with my elbow. I hold back in the threshold, silent and attentive. Those light footfalls and coming from the hall, drifting with his song on the spiraling dust that glitters in the muggy film in the visor I breathe against.

"Get married son and see how happy you will be."

I jerk the door shut on my shoulder, but the wood panel does not stay in the frame. I grab a chair and lurch it over in front of the door and back away.

The room has enough light that I can lower the camera. It's full of broken crates, furniture; many of the tables not only have sewing machines, but large crates and canisters. I weave around the tables, bounding around for the bare spots on the floor that are not cluttered with cracked timber. The left wall of the room has a corner that juts out at my side, and a large metal canister sits by the flat side of the wall that faces me. There's another easel, but it's splattered with dry crimson, there's too much blood.

Somewhere behind me there's a loud _Snap!_ I know where he is, but I don't know where I am. I imagine he must be angry, but he continues the melodic tune without hitch. Jovial, happy, delighted. My skin twitches.

"I have looked all over, but no girlie can I find."

This random pattern scuttles through my head, something about… program script. Numbers. All these numbers, and protocols. Read the program. It nagged at me, this unfinished…. code. There are no computers here, this place is obsolete and rotten. Rejected. I don't know why this is itching at my mind.

I hit a dead end. The weathered pale walls end at shelves and a door, but a large metal shelf is fixed to the doors front. It's no chair, I don't even know if the doors unlocked. But if the storage container is here, it's for a reason.

I sprint to the containers side, and brace my arm and hand to the cold metal. It burns my palm and at first the corroded wheels won't give an inch, but I shove my heels into the wall snug at my back and take a breath. The container shifts, and I keep shoving it until red pulses through my eyes. I lean on the door rattling at the handle, I push the door then pull, and all but fall to my butt. I crawl through the door but don't bother to shut it.

"Who seems to be just like the little girl I have in mind."

The black swallows me up. I stumble around, forgetting to get the camera up. I don't know what it is, this big metal construction that stands in the middle of the room. To the side. There are a lot of these big… look like generators. They're cylindrical, but I can't define their purpose. I move around them, the camera guides my eye with its all seeing vision. Flat metal disks make the upper portion, and the middle section has circular bars; the base has panels, and little latches, some have cables hanging out in loops.

"I will have to look around until the right one I have found."

I haven't stopped moving. I make my way out from these machines and plaster myself to a brick wall. The floor rattles under foot as I rush through, toward a table that's at the connecting wall. Cans of spray and a typewriter stand on the table. I pause here and fumble with the camera, I pull out the old battery— drop the new one. Rather fumble in the dark to find it, I elect to pull out one of the spares and move on.

Brick reminds me of fire, and scorched flesh; the walls around me have that smell engraved in their mortar. I rub a hand over my cut knuckles as I followed the wall, towards a splash of distorted light. I brush by a cloth basket, and the traitorous thing squeaks as it slides aside. I pick up the pace, hurrying past a wall of shelves draped with cloth, and make my way towards a light. An archway, into another room.

"I want a girl, just like the girl that married dear old Dad."

I might as well be going in circles. More of the large metal structures greet me, shred through the green tint burning in my eyes. I edge around the section of wall and get close to the side of the room, and move between the cold machines and the brick. I smell rust, authentic rust that isn't organic or coppery. I sniffle on the air and cough. The dust coats my throat, stealing away my desperate gasps.

Two pairs of shelves lurch forward, their levels filled with canisters of every size. I'm thinking maybe, I could hold out here and lug these painful looking containers at the guy. It's a suicidal thought, but it feels like I'm fighting. Like I'm trying to get away. There must be a way, I'm not looking hard enough. There's a solution here. Something… something sane and rational.

I almost collapse in the light, under the window. I almost want to stop here and wait, let him find me. But I can't keep myself still, I can't wait.

Another archway appears, to the far wall. I breeze by a large metal structure and by a cracked pillar bent sideways.

Tables as far as the eye can see. Furniture stacked and packed, with chairs and trolleys, crates and broken shelves. I shuffled sideways, straining my eyes through the visor and glancing up with my own eyes. I can get through this. It can't stop me, I won't stop here.

There's a large opening, directly under a somber curtain of light. I cough on the air as I renew my sprint. My throat is parched and it burns, there's practically no liquid in my body. It gets worse as I go, and my eyes begin to water. I have to stop by one of the support beams and buckle forward, choking on air. It's the worst sensation yet and I feel like I'm dying as I drop to my knees, my one hand grabbing at my throat.

I'm sure I hear footsteps, but I don't hear him singing. I reason he doesn't always need to sing when he's chasing me, and I have no idea where he might come from.

I use the wood pillar to steady myself and I get up on my feet. I'm still gagging, but I have some moisture in my lungs. The room ahead is a straight shot, lined by the shelves and more furniture stacked, rows of tables and sewing machines; those little laundry baskets linger at the fringes of shadow.

Shelves dominate one side of the room, but directly across from the passage I enter from, there's a large smear of blood on the floor. I move to the side, my eyes skim over the corroded wall poking through some of the collapsed shelves and their contents. It's a dead end on that side, with one door pinned behind a wreck of twisted metal.

I return to the tables on the other half of the room, and climb over the side that isn't as stained. It's fresh, I call smell the heavy copper saturating the air.

This tells me everything. A story with a beginning, middle, and end. I think somewhere I died, and I've come back to retrace my steps. That doesn't make sense, but what else could?

More shelves stand to attest the path I have taken. In the center of the floor amongst tables, a thick puddle of red. The trail of it splatters across the floor, among box filled levels and stops – explodes – at the base of a metal cabinet filled with canisters. Behind the blockade is a door.

I hop over the sticky floor and put myself up against the grated side. I set the camera atop the the container, and shove my shoulder into its side. My feet skid across the floor and I try, struggle to find a foothold, but the floor is slick with sticky blood. It should make this easier— god, that's terrible, but I can't help but think that. Someone died here. This is the end. I don't want it to be my end.

"Darling." My head snaps up. I see him, leap over the table I slipped over, not a minute ago. "You could be so beautiful."

I latch my fingers over the top of the container and jerk back. It's at the same moment the cabinet starts to tilt, that I remember the camera. I snatch it from the top before the canister crashes over, but I don't stop; the base is still pinned at the door. I shove the side of my shoulder between the wheels of the container, and get one foot up on the grainy surface of the door. I take a deep breath and push with my foot. Inch by little inch, the bottom of the cabinet grinds backwards.

"I want you to have my baby."

The door snaps open enough that I can barely squeeze through. It won't stop him, but it will slow him down. My fingernails dig into the wood of the floor as I drag my body through. For a moment, I'm terrified I won't make it, that he'll snare my leg and rip me back through that crack of the doorway. But I'm tumbling over my knees, kicking away from the door as he steps up.

I pull up by the door handle of a gate, beside the door. It's locked. Where is… I snatch the camera up, and turn from dark windows in front of me, to the hall that extends to a gate. I don't look at him, I'm running. I get two strides and pause to check the gate at my left, locked or stuck. Another door, I need a door, someplace I can hide.

The gate at the halls end is locked. I jerk at the door handle, pull at the chain but it's rusted fast. A dead end? No, I'm not seeing, I've missed something.

When I twist back, the night enhancement catches the figures eyes as he steps through the entry. I slam back into the cold fence of the door. This isn't how it ends. It can't! No-No-NO!

As my arm drops, something flashes in the visor. I bring the camera up and duck to the side, right as the figure begins to stalk my way. An open doorway I missed. I could've died! By chance I'm still running, hurrying to a blockade of broken tables, shelves, wooden planks, filing cabinets. I can see enough with the windows beyond the obstruction, but only barely. Who put this here? Who would do this!

But I already know.

I don't look back as I go to work. I ram my shoulder into the lowest slope of a shelf, and back up as the structure quivers but holds tight. The camera is pressed to my chest, I could feel that piece of paper still wedged there, crinkle as I heave a breath and grab at a piece of wood. I wrench it back, but only the plank comes loose. The barrier stands, unimpressed.

He's right behind me. I whirl about and take a wide step back. He doesn't say anything, no more songs or talk. But he does smile. Something glitters at his side, and I look down. It's a knife, or piece of metal. It catches the light from the open elevator shaft—

His arm sweeps out for my head, and I duck low and dive down the elevator shaft. I didn't intend to fall, I promise Lisa. I couldn't get the spring under my feet, what with the way I had to evade his reach. I saw a ladder, Lisa. The ladder was my salvation. I promise.

I get the camera strap in my teeth before I snag the rungs. My grip slips, but my feet take the weight of my body on the icy steps. The entire structure vibrates up and down, rattling through my head. It's not pleasant, and my hands are barely able to keep locked on the bars. I groan through my teeth and the salty grime of the Velcro. My arms get me up an inch, and I manage to stabilize my footing.

Then, the ladder gives an eerie moan. I feel my body tilting, as bar after bar snaps out from under my feet. Soon, only my hands are keeping me anchored in place, but the ladder is twisting and buckling backwards. The inevitable happens, I turn my eyes up as the rungs come loose in my hands. I'm holding the cold metal, but nothing's holding onto to it. The light begins to fade in my eyes as the sudden weightlessness drags me down, down….

Down, down, down.

My hands grab out for the taunt cables right within reach, beside my shoulder. They whiz by my ear as I keep going further and further into the dark depths. I make a kind of muffled whine through my teeth. I manage to turn my gaze down, and see—

My body buckles. Goes rigid and relaxes. A sound tears out of my throat as I flop back onto the hard wood surface I've crashed too. I'm trying to make sounds through my teeth, but I've all but bit through the handle of the camera. The pain sweeps through me like white fire, sizzling up my ankle and searing through each nerve. I remember I have no water in my throat, but I taste something like blood.

I twist to my shoulder and jerk the camera out of my teeth. My whole leg, every inch of it blazes. It barely hits me that I can't feel the side of my foot, along the three outer toes. Is it broken? Where is my leg!

It's mostly there. The lower half below the knee is devoured by the shattered wood of the elevators roof. Hot liquid spills down my ankle and foot, and I savor the sensation of it slithering through my toes. The rest of my foot, doesn't realize what's happened.

"Oh god. Oh god, are you okay?"

Carefully, I put my hands around my foot and guide it free of the jagged trap. It hurts to flex that foot, the pain is vivid and sizzling all over. Oh… holy, Jesus. A huge splint sticks out of the side of my leg, I can't see where it is through the red cloth. I'm horrified, it looks like a chunk of bone. Relief doesn't come when I realize it's not. Red spreads through the side of my pants leg, when gravity shifts…. Shit… holy shit. There's so much blood.

It soaks into my fingers as I hold my foot steady. I grip the splint of wood in my hand – deep, it's in there too deep. Fast, like a thorn. Do it fast—

My spine snaps back against the rough gears of the elevator. Fuck! I press my palm over the wound. Red seeps between my fingers, it won't stop. I can't bleed out like this.

"Tell me you're okay." My stomach twists. He's still there, voice pained by whatever he envisions he's witnessed. I can't take these wild swings. Shit, there's so much blood. The bleeding won't stop. "I hate to think you're suffering without me."

My arms are quaking as I turn over. I use a ledge on the elevators roof to push up, get myself angled. Camera. I dropped the camera. There, I set it aside gently. I pull it up with me as I stand on my knees, the cold cables give stability as I wobble. I don't test my leg. The top of the elevator is covered with red, and the smell, the rich copper of my blood drowns out the tinge of dank plaster. My mind revisits so many places, too many, covered in gore and slaughter. Rooms, hallways a kitchen – I shudder.

"Why would you do something like that to yourself?"

I tilt back and see him, several yards above me standing on the ledge I leapt off from. I'm feeling light headed, but I do make out what he's saying. It takes too much effort to gulp down the hot breath in my throat. If I was willing to reply, I doubt I could form words.

"You'd rather… Rather die than be with me?" He leans forward, as if I've directly insulted him with my silence.

I want to see him fall, but I don't want him down here.

"Then die," he growled. He backed off, out of sight, and drew the metal fence of the elevator across the access.

The elevator lurches under me, and begins to rise. I toppled sideways, but managed to avoid the deadly cogs exposed on the elevators roof. The container is rising, not quickly, but I can't get mobile and upright with its jostling movement. The passage in the wall beside me is shrinking with each minute. I pull the camera up to my chest, and use my free arm to pull myself over the side of the carriage. The container hasn't lifted high enough from the floor, to make the drop painful. I spill out onto an uneven pile of wood, and it knocks the wind out of me. I hiss through my teeth, and set the camera on my chest as I put my blood soaked hands around my leg.

"What have you…?" I can pick up on his disbelief. "Ha! Then we continue."

My neck aches. I have my jaw locked too tightly. He's looking for me. My leg is wounded, and he's looking for me.

I turn my head and stare at the corridor behind me, where the glimmer from the elevators lamp stretches short up the walls. The hall behind me is packed with tall filing cabinets, shelves, ladders. Secluded at the inky depths, is a smoldering red blob –

EXIT

It's in bright glaring letters. I can see it from my position, between cracked and interlocked pallets. I can't focus on how far that would be, if I was able to walk over there. The walls are obscured by the blockade, the door itself is hidden. I doubt… if I had the time, I could get through with my leg in its condition. There's a way around, I'll find that.

Pain twists into the back of my brain. All the nerves up and down my spine are splint and crackling, on edge. I… I don't know if I can walk like this.

I drag myself over the uneven wooden frame, toward a makeshift table by the wall. The wood boards are nailed together, something like a work bench; plywood lies across the top. I grip the edge and turn over onto my side, but pause. My leg is broiling and wet, a thick splatter of red trails after me, soaking into the dusty floor. Shit. Shit. Holy… oh god.

Gotta get up. Up. Have to stand.

I wriggle my good leg under me and anchor my arms over the corner of the table. I press my chin onto the folds of my filthy sleeve and take another breath. Every pulse of my heart vibrates a new wave of agony down my leg. I can do this. I can. I'm not dying here. But first, I have to move. My leg is still present, I have to use it.

One forty-four. Two eighty-eight. Twelve. Twenty-four. Forty-eight. Glass boxes. Men behind glass. So much blood. I'm losing so much blood.

I brace my heel into a corner of the wood frame, and shove my arms into the table under me. I keep weight off my foot, but the shift in gravity presses down on the gash. I can hear the _pip-plip_ of my blood leaking onto a sheet of wood under my suspended foot.

But I'm up, I can get moving. The slacked stacks of wood skid out from under my good foot, I can't keep my balance even when leaning hard on the wall to my side. I hobble one footed, but every tremor of my body drives more blood, more pain surging through my leg. It's cruel, and when I finally reach flat stable ground, I completely lose my balance and fall into the doorway of a metal gate. I keep the camera safe in one hand, and place the brunt of my weight along my ribs and arm. I choke on silt, and grit my teeth. I can do this. But I won't, it can't be possible if I don't move.

I raise my body. Climb up on the chain-links of the sturdy gate I've fallen by. I saw the words illuminated by the lamp dangling from the ceiling. They chill me. Things are getting put together in my head. I don't want them to, but I'm still trying to rationalize what I'm processing. I'm figuring through a mutilated dream that's creeping in; everything becomes a living, breathing nightmare.

_"A woman's work is never done."_

Below the words, blood is splattered across the wall and floor. I haven't come through here. The path is marked in painful crimson, the splayed pattern contorts in my head. There has to be another way! Someone had to have found the way!

I turn the camera to the open hall to my left, but find nothing. It's a fence, and I easily locate the large chain coiled over the door and metal frame. I put the camera strap between my teeth – I'm going to need it – and claw my way up the metal fence. I hear metal clacking. Elevators, I took an elevator into the lab. It's what I saw as the dark receded and the world became white rock, chiseled. Stale, recycled air. People… in lab coats talking, always talking about the Project.

My leg can take weight on my heel, and maybe the side of my front sole. It works better if I drag it, I don't agitate it too much. The skin tugs across the ravaged skin and everything else inside the gutted hole, but I start to move a little easier. The camera strap, it helps. It reduces the pressure in my jaw. I don't feel like my teeth are cracking in their roots. I'm moving. I can still walk.

I keep close to the rough flakey wall and lean on it often as I move across the hall, towards a door that is open. Papers crumple under my leg and stick, I know I'm dragging blood. But maybe, it'll camouflage my path. He couldn't… possibly remember all these blood stains exactly.

A motor is grinding at my back. The elevator. He's coming down.

The room is large, open, bare of furniture. A mattress lies along the farthest wall, a table, garbage littered the floor. There are no places or spaces, or dark corners to hide. Only marred windows, and blood.

I work my way around the rubbish, struggling through hastening my pace without slitting my heel. The echoes of the elevators carriage fade with each step, each grating movement withers in my wound. He'll follow, and there is nothing here; only air, vibrations, and whispers. I'm bleeding too much, can't keep facts straight. Blood spread all over the floor. I haven't been here in this room, but blood is here; a long streak on the floor extending from a thick, black puddle. Futile struggle.

If I've come through these rooms before, and he… I don't make it. He finds me, and I have to start over again? But I get further each time. I can… I know I can do it this time. He won't catch me.

"_There's no place like home._"

It's written across another big easel, with blood speckled along the base. He won't find me. I won't.

Stop.

Off center of the room, there's another mannequin by the pillar. I didn't look twice the first time, but I'm not sure if it's leather or plastic. I'm not sure. The air is saturated with rust and copper, most of it's mine. But the mannequin. I can't look, I lope past. I think pieces of it are crudely repaired with needle and thread. Insects eat the cloth, chew whatever's edible. The mannequin, I think what the bugs ate, was later replaced by a person.

I stumble against a sturdy bookcase in my path, and try to pull cooperation from my hurt leg. There's a stabbing pain in the toes that have feeling, like someone's jamming needles all into my foot sole. It's like a Charley-horse, but there's blood everywhere, and the spasms are dragging me down to my knees. Keep moving damnit! Something inside my body physically snaps, and I'm pushing on. A glowing red haze floods my vision, blood is spilling across my brain. I can't breech the flood, can't breathe. I follow the splotches of crimson all over paper and ruble, the desperate last mile. They lead somewhere. These footprints. I came through here, I knew where I was going. There are shoe prints.

He's singing again, sometimes humming. Or is that me?

The hall is lined with lockers. All open, all empty. The light bearing down is no welcomed relief; it burns into the smoldering haze and makes it worse by an exponent of 10. There's nothing under foot, no crutches I can use. Can't escape the sound, that awful crackling record followed me.

"_If mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy._"

I grip one of the last lockers on my left, and stare at the words on the wall. There's only enough light that I can translate what I can't see. I'm not sure if I read them right. I'm only positive I don't want to know. Too much, I see too much.

I have to tear the camera from my teeth and slip the wet handle hold over my fingers. The light cut off and the dark suppresses, digging its cold fingers into whatever crevice it can find. I stumble through it and manage to grab hold of an empty bookshelf that is directly in my path. There's almost too much room, not enough holds to find my balance. I take the weight off my leg and feel the slow roll of blood slipping down my heel. The fabric of my scrubs clings to my leg, up to my knee. How much blood am I loosing? A quarter a minute? How much blood is in my body?

I can't get ahold of the doorframe. I'm pushing off with one hand, and trying to find stability with the other arm. But the camera occupies my hand, and without it I can't see in the dark so I fall. Something under me tears, and I roll onto my side as a wave of pain sizzles through my nerves. Needles and cold spots bristle all across my skin. The damp page rumpled against my chest, crinkles as I wheeze at the foul air. I feel a sudden spark of clarity, lying in the dark like this. I have nothing to brace my weight on, but I can see through the green glow of the camera. It bobs around as I flop and drag my body towards a wall of crumbling bookshelves and a basket, a laundry basket.

The camera sees, I can't. It's momentarily dark as I shove the cloth container aside with my elbow, and use my other arm to find a hold of the wood. The first shelf cracks when I fight to drag my body up; I grope around in nothingness until I shove the camera into my face. I climb up like Spiderman, sideways and up at a slope, my good leg finally finds the floor under me and distributes some of the bulk. I can see more, but I keep grabbing at whatever surface is within reach. My breath fogs the screen, but there is enough movement and light that I can find a clear path.

The wall parallel to the shelves is an ornate but shattered window, I can see the next hall and some of the light lingering there. I might be able to crawl out the shattered frame, but glass is everywhere. Boxes and desks are shoved against the wall, and lockers, a stool— I can't tell which blood is mine, or what blood has already been here. The blotches get thicker, spread wider. I've come this way many times, again and again, until I get it right. I can do this.

"That part of you the world sees, they think is perfect. As God intended."

The blood ended around the bend in the shelves. I pause, jagged little puffs threading through my lips. It was a large pattern, it had the vague reminisce of twisting shapes burning in my eyes, and the distant warble of the whirring rasp; of dark jagged silhouettes peeling off of walls and encircling my brain, caging me in. Me. Mr. Waylon Park.

"Even these idiots and lunatics see it," he's muttering. Sounded mad, frustrated. "There's something special about you. On the surface."

I swallow down the taste, and turn the camera to the wall built around me. Someone built this. Someone put this here. A trap. That is why the blood ends. Shoe prints. They are clear, and smeared, all through the blood making the patterns larger; twisted.

I press a hand over my face, and dig the edges of my fingers into my brow. Ended. Code end. HTML script errors. No. There's a door beside a locker, unbarred.

"But when they look deeper, when anybody with eyes to see looks at what you truly are."

Beyond all rational, beyond hope and aspiration. The door is locked. It is locked, the knob is rusted, and it is jammed.

I shove my shoulder into the splintered wood, and crumple. A cold wave bore into my leg and twisted through the core of my knee. No. This door can't be locked, just this door. This once. Please.

"That's why they don't trust you." His dark shape glides past the window in the door. He's come down from the elevator, and he'll… the path I took. A trap. "You're not what you're meant to be. Not yet." He knows.

I drive my elbow into the door, then my shoulder. The wood shudders against my assault. I push back and ram my shoulder into the door once more, over and over. Outlines double and pulse, my leg blazes. I beat my palm at the glass, and scarcely recall the camera that is still locked in my fist. If anything, I don't…. the evidence is more important than my life?

"Hmm. Close." Not far! He's in the same room!

I collapse and press my back into the door. End. It's a dead end! Where—

"This place can see into your mind. And the things you've done. Oh, they're a sin, darling."

My leg slips on the thick puddle of fresh blood slipping down my heel. I squeeze my eyes shut, shake my head against his words. He knows nothing. He can't understand, never! "_I had no choice. Did what I have to. I did… I know, and I regret._" A tight sound chokes in my throat. My family. They deserve better. I could've done more, could've survived.

"But a flower is only as sweet as the soil that nourishes it. And yours needs nourishing, and pruning, and care."

"_No. No…._"

As I'm sliding down against the wall, the tips of my fingertips brush over cold metal, hollow. I climb up and peer through the cameras visor. It's a locker. A cage. A hiding place. I pull the latch and slip inside. The door whispers shut. In a few seconds, the interior scent of ancient metal and rotted books is drowned by copper. A somewhat welcomed breeze creeps through the large gap in the doors cracked vent. I can see out. Too well.

"I can…, ah, the smell of my love's arbor." I stuff the camera into its pack, and grip the latch mechanism of the locker interior. "Darling, you can't hide from me." He brushes by the opening, leaning over. I tightened my hold on the little gear housing on my side, and feel the vibrations through the thin metal as he… he doesn't try the latch. He does something else.

The locker pitches over. I'm in momentary black as the whole container tilts dangerously to the side, and keeps going. My voice is saying something, I'm screaming through the thunder hurtling through my head, the panic that I'm falling blindly. On reflex I try and get my arms up, but they're pinned under my side and—

Buzzing is in my ears. I smashed my head on the inner metal when it crashed to the floor, think I hit something sharp. The sounds around me are vague, muffled by the ringing. I'm burbling through my panicked voice, soon choking on the thick film of silt ignited by the lockers collision.

"You make yourself a gift for me."

I'm sliding on my shoulder as the locker flips once more. I groan in my throat, papers and weight shifts around my bloodied leg. I'm suffocating on the heavy air, but the more I struggle to calm my rapid breaths the more panicked I become; the faster my heart beats.

My abductor swings into view above me, and leans toward the opening in the lockers front. "A delicacy to be unwrapped and unwrapped again." His eyes are red, practically glowing. I'm pushing my hands into the edges of the locker, trying to get away from him. "And savored."

He disappears for a short while. I lay there, blinking at the dark, listening to nothing but my heart echoing against the metal walls of my coffin. He's not completely gone. I can hear him shuffle around somewhere, and in the fringes of the murk above I see movement. He fiddles with the foot of the locker, the minute bit of tampering is enhanced by my bloody leg. Something clatters over the head of the locker, and I see him pace around. It's impossible to miss the slightest change in the area around me. Briefly, I do believe he'd forgotten me and left. I thought this, but didn't believe it.

"Here we go. And—"

I don't hear what he says after that. The locker, my coffin, begins to grind over the ground. It roars through my ears; every little bump and crack is amplified through the walls of the container. My leg isn't holding my weight, but all the shivers hammer away at the scorched nerves. I grab at my knee, then at the latch on the door. It's fixed tight by something, a wire. My blood slicked fingers can't get a grip.

"I've been a little… vulgar," he says, through pants. "I know, and I want to say I'm sorry. I just… you know how a man gets when he wants to know a woman."

All the blood on my hands may not be from my leg. I can't see far enough down at the angle I'm lodged in. There's a little box that houses the mechanism for the locker's latch, I should be able to get a finger through a gap and pull something loose. But this is an old model, the metal is thick and the housing for the latch has no openings. I push at the door. Try and get my palms and elbows braced inside, maybe I can force it off.

"But after the ceremony," he goes on. "When I've made an honest woman out of you… I promise I'll be a different man."

I stop fighting the door catch and stare up, out the broken vent in the locker as the ceiling and wood boards drag by. I wince as light pierces the gloom, and fades. The steady scrape of the container pauses briefly; I think a door clicks or creaks, and then the scrabbling racket resumes.

I don't want to think about his words, or imagine… remember too much. Instead, I focus on counting the number of cracks in the ceiling as they pass. Sometimes my finger fumbles at the inner case of the latch; it gives me something to calculate on. As my breathing falls back into a steady pattern, I feel the crumpled piece of paper pressed to my chest. The boards sweep sideways. That means he turned a corner.

There's a pause in the scratching, and for a moment it's quiet. A low humming tingles in the back of my ears. I wince when he leans down onto the locker door. The metal buckles under him, and I push at the door. I can't withdraw any deeper into the rusted metal.

"I want a family, a legacy," he proclaimed. He's speaking right into the tiny opening where fresh air comes in, and his breath is rancid. Like he's dead inside. It all makes perfect sense now. "To be the father I never had. I'll never let anything happen to our children. Not like…." He looks angry, remembering something awful. Was he once a child? That doesn't seem realistic.

All I can think about… are my boys. And marvel at how sheltered they are, how safe they should be. They are a million miles away from me, and I know I love them. I can't think of them… and all those little chairs I've seen. I could be wrong. But my stomach churns, and I'm frightened for them. Lisa. Take care of our boys. Keep them safe. Please. Don't let them take the boys. They won't… there are so many different ways to die. I've seen a hundred today, but the worst is looking me right in the eye.

He disappears, and the locker continues to grind at the ground. The vibrations and rattling get lost somewhere deep in my head, distant from my direct presence and self. I'm not aware of half the time that passes, but I'm certain he hasn't spoken. A putrid odor begins to spill over the opening, and swirls about my head. I'm suddenly all too aware, and the moment I start to shift my body, the jagged threads constrict into my leg.

"You'll have to wait here." I'm lumped with a heavy weight of vertigo as my coffin shifts, and begins spinning. I press my face into my shoulder and stifle a whimper. I'm suddenly upright, with all the weight in the world piled onto my wounded leg. The smell. I miss the smell of my own blood.

"I know," he continues, ducking into view. "You must be just as eager as I am to consummate our love." He lays a gloved hand over the cracked vent, but I see through the spaces in his spread fingers. "But try to enjoy the anticipation." Red tinge, chains. A lone arm sways in midair. I gawp at it with the edge of my eye, and try to focus on the awful scent of my scrubs. "Here, darling."

I'm not listening. He pulled his hand away, and my eyes locked on a blood soaked table, severed bodies hang around the room. Everything is shaded in this rosy light. This single random phrase keeps repeating in my head, "_I need to get home to my… I need to get home to my…._" I scarcely glance at his hand as it rests just below the lockers window.

"This will help you relax."

A bitter mists envelopes the interior of the locker. Immediately, my eyes turn fuzzy and I'm sputtering, hissing at the icy liquid that fills my nose and throat. I struggle to raise my arms and defend my face from the poison, but my limbs are already detached; the rest of me is coming apart. It nullifies the pain in my leg, but feeling nothing… isn't it terrible?

The sounds vanish, the light evaporates. I fall into a deep black pool of mud and glass, everything cold and hot all at once, and always fluctuating. If I never wake up, that seems fair. I've done so many things I regret. So much is left unfinished. Fucked up so bad. But in this empty haze, I don't care. I can't fix this. In so deep. You're in too deep.

All gone.

Lost it all.

I'm sorry.

Lisa.

As Waylon sleeps, a half a mile away another man awakens in a white room. This man is certain his contact is dead.


	22. Chapter 22

**hey. Enjoy**

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**The Father and the Monster**

The pregnancy was hard on Lisa. Not like our others kids where it was pretty textbook. She'd get so ruffled by me, but she took it all in good stride. Lisa was a trooper, and she'd crack those sort of 'dotting husband' jokes when I'd cater to her every whim excessively.

Like how I'd hold her hand while we went down the stairs, got her out of the kitchen in the rare instance I used the microwave - no microwave meals for her. I had to do a bit of cooking, which she wasn't impressed with but she humored me. When I went out, Lisa always had an odd request for items, weird combinations of foods for her cravings, all organic beverages. All text book, standard, and unremarkable in every way. I had no idea why I was so finicky.

Then the day of the birth came. I remember thinking, where did we pack the boys off to? A relative, a close friend, the asylum? I wasn't really thinking, it was all happening too fast. When Lisa's contractions started, I hustled her off to the hospital and the staff whisked her away to one of the delivery rooms.

The room had a foul odor to it, like the sheets had been scrubbed in foul water. But I couldn't really protest, Lisa was already set up and I kept by her side the whole time as she whimpered and breathed. I held her hand and talked to her, made promises and assured her we'd be all right, we'd get through this. There was only one doctor, which struck me as odd. He wasn't doing much, just waiting for the baby to arrive.

'_Something's wrong,'_ I'd say. '_I know it_.'

The doctor sort of brushed me off. '_Sometimes the first is always difficult_.'

'_No. You don't understand. I know something's wrong. It's taking too long. You gotta do more._' But the doctor refused to listen, and I was afraid to leave Lisa's side.

I had a fear burned into me, that if I wandered off I'd never find my way back. I'd get lost in the endless halls, the flickering lights, the barbed wire, and tall, harsh interlinking fences that rose up in the rooms like hells corn maze. I tightened my grip around Lisa's hand and thought, prayed, that maybe the doctor was right. I was being my classing fussy Waylon, and Lisa would be fine. I'd see.

There was so much blood, spreading between her legs and soaking through the dull white sheets. I stared, feeling dread. Lisa gave a final little sound in her throat and went still, her hand sagging in my grip. Hard, cold, and crusty.

The doctor stood. He was one of those doctors that wore a crisp black business suit, and had deep black eyes that squinted. He carried blood drenched blankets, and pushed the tiny parcel against my chest. The rancid smell of it punched through my nostrils and stabbed at my brain. Jesus, the smell. It brought tears to my eyes; I couldn't help but cough and wince, it was painful.

'_You must be so proud,_' he said. Jeremy Blaire. He smiled his thin little smile, and then turned from me to pull the sheet up over Lisa's glassy eyes. '_She's a strong woman, Mr. Park._' He left me there under the rose tinted light, and walked out through a pair of doors off to the side. He might've mentioned something about martinis as he stepped out, I wasn't listening.

I was looking from the foul lump, and to Lisa's shape, molded and defined, under the sheet. Couldn't they have done more? Weren't they supposed… to do something else? I stared, mind void of comprehension, reflection. Lisa… couldn't be.

Then the tremors struck, hard and fast. My legs buckled, and I fell over my wife, clutching the repulsive little bundle to my chest. Blood dripped from it freely, spilling across my foot and filling the cracks between my toes. I wept silently, unable to form a coherent thought. No Lisa… this couldn't have happened. It's too awful. There's still a chance to fix this. I can do something.

But I do nothing more than lay over her sobbing. I've lost my world, my meaning. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

Then I'm suspended in nothing. Dark smog seeps through my skin and muscles, threading out and into me with icy needles. It's like the fog that coated the asylum's grounds never left, it'd only hidden itself. It lurked. And it chased him. The shadow was relentless in its pursuit, tireless, constant, disturbed and agitated. I brought it. Everything was and is my fault. I should have kept my mouth shut. Should've died.

I come to, restless. The rancid odor of the infant followed. I never got a good look at it. But… that never happened. It comes back to me in little pieces, and I realize I have no idea where I am or what exactly happened to me. Everything in my head is a jumbled mess of panic and pain, and I can't get my eyes open. I don't believe I'm fully roused; I don't know. What my mind fixates on is the repulsive stench, and the undertones of freshly sawed wood… kindling. It's out of place, and it makes me wonder about what's in my head. Sawed wood. It's reminds me of carpentry, my grandfather. Hobbies. God, I don't want to wake up.

I choke feebly on the chemical taste in my throat, intermixed with the hot musk permeating my skin. It's something that was left in the bottom of the barrel in mid-summer, and sort of… liquefied. I don't recall what it was in the first place, some kind of meat glued in the rubbish bin. My nose is slicked with mucus, and my eyes are sore and puffy. It's almost an amenity, compared to the awful layer of disease massaging my brain into focus.

Sounds are vivid. The twitter of pellets tickling through pipes. Or chains. Something metal grinds through my thoughts. It followed me. Or is it insects, humming away on the foul atmosphere, laughing. People whine and bawl, mutter. There are people. Is anyone alive?

After a wearying long time, I manage some resolve and get my eyes open a crack, and wince from the piercing radiance that stabs my eyes. It reminds me of something far below, someplace deep. I'm falling back into the hazed abyss, but struggle, thrash against the iron hold and fight my way back into something like alertness; my eyes are more open now. I don't know if I'm actually conscious, or dreaming, or hallucinating again. Rose tinged vapor fills the void, a distorted figure splayed out, like a frog in biology class. What do I see? What am I looking at?

My thoughts falter into the black depths. It's release. I feel myself distanced from the situation, from the truth of the equation. Equations. The skin along my neck prickles. I am not safe. The illusion knocks out of me, and I claw my way back from the heap of my grave; oily rock and soil was piled high, keeping my broken body buried deep down beneath the light. Blood drenched me, coats my clothing and soul. I must remember. I must know something.

A voice sliced into my mind, and it hurtles me back gasping, delirious. There's so much noise, desperation shrieking, begging – hardly any of it sounded human. It was like an animal. A wild, pleading, wounded creature. I pushed at the cold door, barely. My muscles are vacant and unresponsive. He needs to shut up. Please, be quiet.

"Darling," the voice beseeches. "I need you to try to bleed less." Christ, I remember that voice. God no, no… no….

He looms over the table, a black swirling mass. My eyes pry open, fully this time. He… the Groom, stands before the light, making the scenery bearable to my choked senses. Why? Why doesn't the figure under him run? He's just mewling, squirming.

My breath comes back onto my face, warm, uneven. I don't wonder what he's doing. He holds the jagged edge of something beside his hip, a little out from him. I feel myself drooping. The pain, my leg… is so distant, amputated from my perception. I wonder if I was ever broken in the first place.

"I know the fairer sex often endures the same wounds with more suffering." The Groom hunches over the squealing body, as it rives and contorts. It's all too clear now, crystal. "But you really need to make an effort."

And then it happens. He heaves his arm back and drives the knife – not through the chest – but within the area between the restrained figures thighs. I'm gawping as it happens. The peeling shrieks of the castrated man reach throat shattering decibels, I can't stand it. The horrid sounds of it reverberate into and all around the metal casket that holds my body, driving shards of precise threads into my bad leg; bringing it back to me, to my awareness; it's threaded shut by the dying wails of another.

The Groom keeps ramming the spike into the man's privates – vicious, aggressive. His back is to me, I can't see his face; is he enjoying this? I feel something inside my body twist unnaturally from the ghastly spectacle; I've never seen such heinous torture, violence. Deafening screeching, building, a thunderhead of agony and terror; soggy gurgles and revolting speech gagging, drowning through mud and blood. And then… silence. The man keeps at his gruesome trade, eventually abandoning the weapon on the surface of the blood soaked table… the surface is thick with blood, puss, viscera, and so much more. I don't… know. Rational is defeated by the spewing hatred. Globs of hot liquid spill from my eyes. I'm sorry. Sorry Lisa. I-

He strangles the body. Bucks it up and off the table under his hands in a wild frenzy. I feel myself falling back into safety of the dark wedges within my thoughts, places the nightmares haven't found. My eyes slip close, and I feel a warmth trickle down my legs. I can't hold onto this. I can't witness anymore.

His voice tramples through the whirling blurs. "No. I'm sorry, darling. Love isn't for everybody." I see his muddled form callously shove the skewered body off the table. The dull meaty collision hums in my thoughts, everything spirals out of reach. Out of control.

"_Help me."_

My reprieve is fleeting, and I feel the lingering urgency sitting on my mind. Danger. I'm in danger. But I can't act on it. The back of my hands thud against the inner housing of the doors lock, the effort takes the fight out of me and I barely get my eyes cracked. Tiny feet patter along my brow, I wince at them, but they always return. The buzzing of tiny wings drills into my mind, reminds me of pestilence, despair.

"Hold still now, darling. All these unsightly hairs." This time, he sounds chipper.

My eyes focus, like I've suffocated on the numbing stench inside the lockers confined walls. I see a sharp, glaring white angle, like the side of a protractor. Focus comes, as the shape jerked and moves. It's him, but he's not facing the light, he's not really facing me either.

The dimness clears easier this time, and I see the figure almost clearly. The practitioner perfecting his trade. He is wearing a suit, but it's all wrong… mottled, mismatched colors. His face is all red, blotchy, infected. A little stripe of hair is neatly cut up his scalp, the rest of his head is freshly shaved. He's caressing a body, flattened out under him and shuddering, wriggling. My mind supplies, that this person is enjoying it. I blink one eye, the other slants closed.

"Oh! Silky smooth. Like a little girl again." The man sounds amused, and pleased. It's disconcerting, the way he talks to the mutilated body. His victim… has no idea, and he's unrestrained. The patient's leg is raised over the Groom's shoulder, and he roves his hand up, then down the restrained limb. His hand glides down to the stitched and baron space between the patient's legs, then slithers across the stomach and stops over the disfigured chest. He does this again and again as the body trembles.

I shiver, and paw at the interior of the locker. My fingers refuse to coordinate, I can't hardly feel them. My movement, struggling at the latch, drives a hot prick down my hip. My body tenses involuntarily.

"Now the delicate bits." The hand trails off the patient's curled leg, and reaches off to the side. I pick out the dangerous sound of something sliding off the table; a metallic grating -

The knife.

The man raises the blade under the lamps rose tint vapor and examines the glittering side, immaculately clean. He leans up over the squirming body, and presses his bent knee far up between the patient's legs. The man directs the point of the blade somewhere beneath the collar bone, and for a splint second the delirious patient is silent.

Until the incision is made.

The blade drives down slowly, meticulously; the figure wails, screams, and pleads beneath the gliding trail the blade forms. For a moment the insects are silent, as if in rapt anticipation of the surging blood spilling across the marred body.

I want to try and understand… what the man is doing. Is he killing on purpose, or, is the killing a side effect of the procedure? He's insane. Insane, malicious, and nothing can contend with his depravity. "_Too literal, Mr. Park._"

"_Please Lisa. Not here._"

The act is slow, calculated. The surgeon must know what he's doing; I can't imagine him without a kind of awareness working, gutting people, inventing his methods of torture. The flayed figure bawls and gurgles the lower down the blade travels, past his naval; deeper and deeper into the vulnerable organs. The surgeon is silent in his work. I can't… know if he's amid silent concentration. When he reaches the area of the patient's genitals, the man steps back and paused as his victim shrieks and withers, pleading:

"Please! No! NO!"

The blade is run down to the table. I hear something crack, as the knife splits the hard and sensitive areas. The moans turn into gurgles. I hear wet sloshing, inconceivable horrors. All in graphic detail, raw and unrestrained butchery; all for me to watch, and witness.

I'm fading from it, diving back into the haze. The descent is heavier this time, and I smack the lump on my head onto the hard edge of the locker. How long will this go on?

I dream about hospitals. I think that's what I've been dreaming, but my head is too leaded. Hospitals are filled with fences and black steel lattice links separating the rooms, dried flesh was stretched over barbed wire, along with tattered musty sheets. Terrible silhouettes hover behind the sheets, stretching and lumbering about, grunting. I hear talk of protocols and a spread; maybe blood, maybe an infection. I couldn't find a way out of the place, every corner led to a room, every opening went deeper into the maze. Forever fences. They rattled with the faces pressed into them, flat gray eyes staring. Then a whirring.

"You've given up." No I haven't.

I realize the voice is, thankfully, unaware of me. It talks to someone, someone who is screaming back, blithering and begging.

"You're ugly and you've given up on love." He's misogynistic. I don't know why it occurs to me then, or why it should matter. My stomach aches as I force my eyes open.

At some point I had flopped forward, and the skin along my sore brow throbbed. I lay there, staring through the crack in the vent as the man holds a cowering figure above the dark colors of the carpenter table. The sound of the saw, it reminds me of kitchens and places of scorched flesh. The Cannibal. I blink slowly, focus swings back into me. Simple fears. So tame, friendly even. He just wanted to hunt and kill. Simple. Why was I so afraid of him? We understood each other. He only wanted to kill and be done with it.

"You're not even worth stringing up," the man proclaimed, disgusted. "Bleed here and die."  
The Groom snares the whining man by the scruff of his neck, and shoves his face into the front of a whirling lumber saw. The glowing vapor around the figures shoulder's is filled with a thick crimson mist, flints of bone glint in the lamp. Still, the Groom holds his victim, even when the body ceased to scrabble with his hand. I blink as something _chinks_ off in the room.

That person didn't realize it, but he was very lucky.

My face slides off the edge of the locker, and I feel warm liquid trickle along the crease of my eye. The locker clunks, and the door snaps as I sink down, down… that's all it took. I should've… my consciousness submerges. I should've kicked more. Head, everything is heavy. I'm gagging on the air. I want to go home, I need to get home to my….

Family.

It's all gone. Out of reach.

My mind finds happy ideas, gentle memories. Sunlight on the pillow. Warmth of another body, close to me. I want that sensation back.

The sunbeam in my eyes is unbearable, but I refuse to move now. Someone is touching my ankle. Grasping my foot beneath the arch, tightly. I'm not coherent enough to ask Lisa to stop, my head is still pin wheeling in a miasma of incoherent sensations. I think my foot twitches, but I'm not quite in contact with my outer extremities. A hand runs down the inner side of calf and slips up towards the back of my heel. A large, gloved hand.

A little sound creaks in the back of my throat. I don't want to look. My sanity will crumble, my mind will shatter. But the kneading gestures continue, and I have to look. The images my mind builds are too graphic. I can't bear not knowing.

A yellow blaze scalds my face. I can't see, everything is hot, too stimulating. The air is rank and the crackle of insect wings bombard my ears; the little varmints land on my neck and face, but I have no impulse to fight them off. Everything that is thought and awareness sags and drags across the interior of my skull, and the images my eyes pick out are blurred. Ugly shapes pulsate into focus, each check of my mental list fails to bring cohesion back, it only makes me more confused. Frightened. I'm all too aware of how bare my chest feels, how... open I am. I remember last, I was wearing a tight fitting shirt under my scrubs. But I feel… I know I don't want to be awake right now, but I can't lay here in a vegetative state. I have to protect my vulnerability….

My legs. Are tied up. I'm in the lithotomy position. I remember that. Doctor's called it that. I stood beside Lisa, held her hand and talked to her. There were machines and people, a touch of low key chaos. None of that had mattered then and there. I was with my wife, supporting her as only a partner could, as she brought our first child into the world. I remember that day vividly, she was so beautiful – exhausted, crying, cursing me. I told her, "_I love you. You're amazing_." She told me to shut up. It was serious business. But I couldn't help kissing her forehead, telling her she was perfect.

I've been splayed out under a light, nude, in this undermining position. Enough of my alertness has been recovered, to make me completely receptive of my surroundings, and detect the minute variations of the atmosphere all over my exposed skin. The man moves at my toes. He tightens the binds that are cutting into my ankle.

"You have amazing bone structure." There's this expression in his eyes. It's not… deluded devotion, I'm certain it's malice. Something akin to hate, or suffering. The blood in his eyes, the ugly festering blotches that butcher his face. All of it IS his blood. Blearily, I wonder what happened to him. He does seem… I've seen him somewhere. The thought chills me.

"Such soft skin," he cooed. I blink at him, my eyes blur and water seeps across my cheek. "You're going to be beautiful." And then… he touches me. My legs.

I let my head flop back on the hard table, and tug at my arms. The rope around my wrists is painfully tight, cutting. I think… the timber feels brittle, but more firmly connected to the wooden rigging I'm tied into. My shoulder blades scrape on the sticky surface of the table that I lay exposed on. If I—

"A woman… has to suffer some things," he speaks, somber, empathetic. It makes my guts screw up. I don't see where he's gone, I hear shuffling behind my head. I'm leery of the sounds, of his plans, and tilt my head back searching. "It's not pleasant, I know. But just try to… endure." He appears on my side, and places his hands on the grainy timber frame beside my head. "For my sake. For the sake of our children." He sets a hand over his chest, and grinned.

Liquid rolls from my eyes, warm globs slithering down my cheek and neck. I glare at him in the crushing silence. He undressed me while I was unconscious. Carried me over to this… rigging; splayed me out, and tied me up.

Touched me.

The lamp is hot and blistering on my exposed skin, like a small piece of sunlight. My body rattles without restraint, threatening to snap the brittle structure apart. If only it would, but I doubt I could crawl far under his scrutiny.

"It won't take long. A few snips at the flesh here, and here." He gestures to my chest, and… between my legs. I'm frowning at him, I don't know why. The way he addresses my body, like he's talking about an article of clothing. An unsavory piece of meat. "Cut away everything… vulgar." He leans far over, examining me between the legs, and looks at me. Again, I wonder—

**I know**.

I know, where he's seen me.

"_Waylon Park, employee one-four-six-six, report to the Morphogenic Engine monitoring immediately._"

"_You!" The man behind the glass yells. I'm safe. He can't get me. "__I know you can stop this! You have to help me! You have to…._"

Oh… god. Christ….

It comes crashing onto me. "_You're in too deep_." Those words. My words. They haunt me. "_How can anyone hope to escape when you're this deep, in this place?_"

The dark red blemishes coat his face, appearing as I witnessed; cables jammed into his throat and nose. Painful, inflamed welts. I was part of that. I helped them do that to him. I'm responsible. He knows precisely who I am.

He caresses my inner thigh, high… too close. And grins down at me. "A soft place to welcome my seed."

I'm jerking my arms at their tethers. By now, the sensation is numb in my hands and feet. Christ… fucks sake, he tied it too tight. He's gonna cut me. Gonna cut me! Mutilate me. Can't protect. Can't escape! Cut me! He wants to -

"To grow our family," he hums. The man jerks the rig I'm tied into, and moves to the end at my feet. I can't hardly hear him over… saw is going. The rusted lumber saw is covered in gore, and angled directly below me. I had seen it, but my mind had blocked its presence. I couldn't fathom, could only recall my delirium and voices screaming over the shrill wail of the blade - between my thighs.

My natural urge is to recoil, but my legs remain tethered above my head and drag me closer to the toothy blade. I'm jerking painfully at my arms, single minded thoughts lurch and jerk at my brain. I have to cover myself! I make this eerie, whining sound deep in my throat, it doesn't sound human. Christ… no! There's a way! There's another way!

I have no idea what he's blathering about. He stands there, holding the polar ends of my feet. His eyes flick from me, then to the area between my legs.

"The incision will hurt," he stated. "And the conception. And birthing is never easy." He shakes his head.

I don't want to think of my kids. Not when… I'm like this. But I do. I know I won't see them grow up, I won't see them struggle with life, find their footing; and one day turn into sturdy, independent young men. I don't want to think… I'm going to die here.

A messy, mutilated, unrecognizable corpse. Lisa… will want to see me. She won't take their word, that I was… whatever's left of me, was found. Especially if they lie, they're going to have to. The truth, the morbid ugly truth. Dental records. They'll have to ID me with dental records. If I'm allowed to keep my teeth.

"I'll make the cut fast," he says. I'm not sure, but I think I want him to die. He should die, not me. "Just close your eyes," he murmured. "And think of our children." And then he starts to do it. He drags the frame of the tinder corral towards the insatiable saw, and with me on it.

I lean up, trying to drag my arms away from the shrieking metal monster. Words fumble at my lips, I'm trying to say everything in my head, read off my a line of code I didn't know I remembered— I can't do it! He's fully lost in this macabre craft of his. He pulls the grainy frame, my body, towards him; the blade, nearly obscuring genitalia… I can pull myself back, get away from the whirling blade.

But it keeps inching closer and closer. I don't have the strength. I'm not strong enough to survive. Sawdust spits up in every direction below the man's steadfast gaze, and a cloud of flies bellows upward, disturbed by the scent of smoke. I'm yammering, sobbing. No! NO!

What will they tell my Lisa? I died castrated! He should've jumped! I could've died clean, quick, with dignity… I regret, I know what— Hurt. This is gonna hurt—

There's a wet _Crack_! and my eyes pulse white. I believe… I'm dead. The instant my body registered its mutilation, I die mercifully quick. I prepare a scream that'll turn my lungs raw. Pain kills. Pain kills—

But as I buckle over, I see a shape folded forward, nearly across the taller man's chest. My butcher has swept backwards, red chin glossed with fresh blood - his blood. I've never seen a more beautiful sight.

I don't get a clear eye of what followed. The gears in my head shift to immediate flight; I know this opportunity is fleeting, and fragile. The saw is still there, on its single minded mission to chew and destroy, but the frame I'm lodged into splints. My vigilante plowed through the corral, tinder splinters scatter across my shin, and a vibrant blaze envelopes my leg as the rope slackens from my ankle. In my ear, a sharp rattle twitters within the cracked wood. I feel it. I feel it!

I use my waning stamina to lobe my body backwards, off the saws teeth. The rickety timber wood frame creaks on my left. I apply a last ounce of desperate strength to the weakened post, and hear it snap. The damaged timber crumbles under my weight and I flip sideways; face first to the floor atop scraps of flesh, and thick muddy puddles of gelatinous blood. I come to inhabit a world swirling red, mud, and decaying carnage.

But I'm off the table, I've escaped the light.

My arms drag through the gore as I push myself up, and haul my body clear of… from the two brawling figures. They're on the murkier side of the room, struggling in front of a netted fence holding a light captive, and perched on the wall within. It's easy to see the larger figure, the surgeon, does has the advantage. But the smaller person is giving it his all, jerking around, grabbing clumps of the dress suit of his foe.

The Groom has had enough and wrenches around, effectively knocking the smaller man free. I kick my feet into the filthy floor and shove a hand between my thighs.

The smaller figure lugs something through the air. I see it as a fist, or mutilated arm, but I can pick out the damage to his ruined skin. The interloper has something bright, glistening, in his hand, and he plows that object over the side the Groom's skull. In the instant the tall man buckles over, the smaller figure is gone, racing away into the dark recesses of the room. I watch him flee, my trembling arm raised to a sturdy pillar at my side.

"Get back here!" The Groom gives chase. "You're not dying you slut!"

I'm alone.

The open, empty air hugs close to my body, suckles on my hips. I sit with my thighs pressed together, my hand clasped tightly over me scrotum and penis. I'm hurting myself. The pain is paralyzing, I shouldn't be in this position. I'm in one piece, I… know, I'm not bleeding. I don't know if I could tell, I can't make myself look. I want to forget. I need….

I want to go home.

Heavy, graveled sobs gurgle out of me. I'm not sure if I'm talking, or mumbling neurotic little phrases. It cycles through my head, these words. "_I _want to go home. Need to get home. I want, I need— Want, Need. Can I see my family? Can I go home? Will I? Be the same? I want my family. I need them.___"_

My legs scrunch up into my chest, and I lean into the grainy surface of the pillar. I won't remove my hand, I can't move. I'm shaking hard enough I'll rattle my bones loose. Little mewling's noises burble wetly in my throat, the pathetic sounds ripple torrents of shame through me… indignation. My whole body is coming apart. Worst of all, I survived. I don't understand how this could be the decisive blow, but somehow that's what my mind cued on. I survived. Somebody had to _Save Me_. What… what if they hadn't? What…?

What am I going to tell Lisa? I can't let her know what happened here. What almost happened to us. To me.

He was going to do it. He was going to cut me. He was trying to take a piece of my identity, claim me as his. Awful. Awful. Am I still alive? It hurt to fight, to survive for nothing. And for a moment, on the saw and so close, I think I had accepted it. Death. It would've been an excuse to stop running, to cease caring; erase the shame of my contribution to this facility. How many of these monsters did I help create? How many of these people remembered Waylon Park, employee number one-four-six-six. How did I ever let them convince me this was okay? This was all wrong, no better than the lunatic doctors! Those monsters! What they did, and I... helped.

I focus on my slowly steadying breath; mediated on the epiphany that jarred my every notion and defense. I was apart of the engine of nightmares, I signed the contract. They... tried to destroy me - Waylong Park - but managed to fuck that up, too. The accident that massacred everybody, liberated me. That's the only truth I could come to accept, and it has been proven True again and again. It had. No. Right.

I'm not strong, not like Lisa. She's always been my support, my rock…. I needed her.

Lisa. God Lisa, I'm sorry. Christ's sake, I'm sorry baby. I should've known, I should've known better. Should've… I should've listened to you, stayed by your side. I'm sorry. I've done everything wrong… we were all wrong. Can't fix this. Was wrong. Wrong about so many things, little things. Missed so much, and so much lost. I'm missing so much.

God. I'm nodding off. My face is stricken with tears, I'm curled up on the floor utterly naked, holding my privates. And I'm nodding off. I can't… stay. He'll come back. He'll try again, turn me into one of his— brides. All those people. Dead, gutted. Castrated like animals. I don't want to see my body cut up before I die. I don't want my last thoughts to be about how Lisa is going to see my corpse.

I flounder forward, grabbing at nothing but air. I've forgotten my leg in my immobile state, and when I scrape it across the sticky floor, jackknifes of pain flash through my head. I make a sound, and try, I fight to quiet myself. That other person. The Groom chased after someone else, and for now he either forgot about me, or he'll kill them first before coming back. I don't think he knows I got loose.

My body is stiff, and my joints are hard and sore. The chemical makes my movement sluggish, but I get crawling forward and bump against a metal side table set near the saw slab. I grab at it before it can wobble and tilt. An object clatters on its surface, and when I look, relief floods me. The camera, it's safe. It's poking out of the pouch of my belt. Clothing. I need something to wear.

My garments are piled on the bloodied ground behind the side table. I drag them over, and flatten the under shirt over my waist. I lay on the cleanest spot of the floor and work to get my bad leg through a the pant leg first, then lean over and get better leg secured in place. My eyes snap over to the side of the dark room, where the Groom and my aid dashed away to. Ahead of me is another doorway, where the light hits. I don't know where either man will appear. I doubt I'll see my aid alive or in one piece after this.

I pull the waist area of my scrubs up, then, pull the undershirt over my head, and shove the bottom of the shirt as far down as it'll go around my middle. It's not far. I zip up the jumper suit, and reach for the belt. I freeze when the little notebook goes flying out and lands on some undefinable chunk of flesh - I don't know what nor do I care. With shaking hands I grab the notebook and flip through. I exhale a little breath. All my notes are in place; none appear to be ruined or ripped.

"_Still intact. I'm here, Lisa. I'm still me. He... He tried to make me his bride. To cut me._

_Maybe I was wrong. Telling the world would only draw it here. Should this place just die and fester here? I won't tell the world if it means spreading the infection. Let it die alone, let it rot._"

I tuck the notebook deep into its pouch and zip it up. One more thing is missing. Important. I pat my chest down, and go through the belts pockets. Gone. Gone. I lost the— the email correspondence between Granat and Jeremy Blaire.

I'm trying to stand now. Pull myself up by the rough pillar, and steady my footing by holding onto the short metal stand. As I'm hunched over, I see what looks like the note. The folded and rumpled page has been pulverized in a puddle of blood and mud, the creases of shoe prints visible on the surface of the page. Carefully, with the side table clutched tightly in one hand, I reach down and attempt to pull up the paper. It comes apart, it's unsalvageable. I leave it there.

It was a tether to the life they tried to steal from me. Proof that my Lisa was fighting for me, and wouldn't let me go. I'm uncertain… if I still want her to be my champion. For the… I don't want to think of the boys. Not after everything He said to me.

I shudder. Have to keep it together. Have to… find a way out.

The batteries are missing. He let me keep the worthless pocket knife, but the batteries, my precious vision is gone.

The cameras main battery still has power. It shuts off when the visor is closed. I check the night enhancement, and give the room a short sweep. I know where the Groom disappeared to, chasing after the other patient, somewhere to the rooms right. The range on the night feature works when I have some light, but it's despairing and limited. I have to hobble until I'm nearly at the wall, before I see the pair of doors. I don't try the handles, and instead back away.

Everywhere I look there's some person shaped lump. It's either one of the multitudes of female mannequins the Groom collected, or a chuck of a torso suspended under the pale light of the lamp. The flies hum around my head as they scatter up. I can feel what the camera can't reveal to me as I shuffle around; viscous splotches of blood, cold discarded limbs brush off my toes. A world engraved into my skin, enhanced by scent and the gaps my mind is willing to supplement.

I hurry towards the large doorway at the front of the room, and don't look back. The putrid reek doesn't leave me as I move into the cooler, clean outer area. An expansive room filled with tall shelves, loaded with lumber and carpentry supplies. Some look familiar, most of it looks outdated. On the rooms far side large, mottled windows suspend in the slate gray; it's more ancient glass delighted to reveal nothing. I try to juggle my use of the worn out camera battery, and what is available from the windows weary patterns filtering throughout the room.

My legs scrapes over chunks of plywood and planks. I want to stop and check, but I'm already aware that the Groom… wiped off some of the blood while I was unconscious. It's not cleaned, but the blood isn't as thick on my bad leg. I can feel it as my skin strains. I'm not ready to check it.

On the lumber shelf I lean on, a long blue filthy cloth is draped over the levels. I don't bother with cover this time, I tear a few pieces off and stuff them into a pouch on the side of my belt. I hardly pause, and keep moving between a tall wood frame shelf, and a countertop. Beyond the countertop is deep murk choking that side of the room. I can't make out what is there, if it's an open area, more of the room, or just a wall.

I step away from the shelf and lean on the sturdy frame, my senses prod desperately at the dark. It feels open, but not extensive. The black goes on and on, and I feel swallowed up in it. I have to escape from it before I suffocate.

I return my gaze to the open side of the room, where the windows are huge and the light feels bright, almost tepid on my skin. The imposing shelves jut out from the spaces of the wall, where there are gaps between windows. Cutting through the room's center are two wide carpenter benches, the surface of both are cluttered with jagged splintered lumber; the furthest one has a small chair seated on top. I listen and watch, the windows don't allow enough visibility to make out if the path is safe, but I don't hear anything, aside from insects whirling about in the workshop.

My body begins to slump, and I fall with it beside the rough, cold frame. I hold onto the wood, shaking. I've never been this self-conscious about my penis before, not like…. He was going to cut me in half. Castrate, mutilate, and murder. I'm tempted to sit here, in my blood and piss soaked jumper, and not give a damn about anything. I survived. I survived, and there's no triumph in that. I don't feel gratitude toward whoever saved me. I'm… I've just been overlooked. I shouldn't feel this way. This isn't right.

Have to keep moving. I don't want to, but it's not a choice. Consent. That's something about love. Consent, trust, faith. My body is rocking again, but my breathing is something almost normal.

I pull myself up by the frame, and resume my broken gait. There are not enough shelves or walls for me to lean on, but I try to keep close to the side of the room with the windows and shelves. I bring up the camera, forgetting that the night range won't work in the gloom. My leg has stopped gushing blood but every motion I make, the slightest pressure I apply to my leg, I feel a warm trickle seep down my ankle. My stomach feels heavy, and a dull ache has settled in my skull. Too much blood. I lost too much blood. That much I know.

A series of rapid, husky pants makes my body go rigid. I stop between an industrial shelf loaded with chemicals and buckets, and the center work bench. My hair stands on end, and I begin to stumble backwards. I haven't heard the voice, but I already know what he'll say.

"There you are, Darling!" He yelped. "Come back to me."

I can't see where he is, or from where his voice carries. I hobble around the backside of the carpenter table, fall to my knees, and scramble into the dark haze on the other side of the room; far-far from the damning windows. I put the camera to my face as I crawl knee, hand, and heel; like a crippled spider. A gate and door appears to my side, and I shuffle to that and try the door handle. This path led out, but the door was locked.

The Groom is silent, but I get an idea where he' moving. I crouch, with my back pressed into the gate, and watch as the dark outline drifts past the windows.

"You'll run out of places to go. I know you're not like the others." His voices hovered somewhere, not far from where I've hidden.

I press my face into the crook of my arm, and breathe. He doesn't see me. I can get by. Don't let him see me, please. Don't let him.

Under the cover of murk I move, slowly rising on my good leg and using the nearest shelf to get me up. Not fully, I remain as huddled as I can and drag my leg. I wince as I stagger over planks, and totter over what feels like a shattered pallet. I halt in my tracks and lower down, my head turns back searching. I don't see the Groom, but I hear him. His voice laced with impatience.

"Or are you just another whore?"

I get down lower and move, I feel my way over the cement with a free hand. The Groom shifts, or a draft scatters a paper; I stop moving and huddle down on myself. I'm close to a shelf and beside a tall thick pillar. I use the camera to see through the stacks of crates and lumber stuffed among the levels. For now, the Groom is silent. I never had sight of him, and I know it's probable he's looking this way. I don't see a better place to move toward; through the spaces in the shelf it looks like the corridor continues behind a wall.

"I'm trying to be patient, darling." His voice has distance, some of its resonance has faded.

I slink forward, toward the light cast by the window near the corner of the room. A rugged grayish hue slips over my stained sleeves. I don't know if the lights artificial or real, but it's more appealing than the red tinge of the workshop. I pull myself up by the frame of the shelf, and begin shuffling around the edge of the shelf. I glance up, and back into the open space of the room. My blood turning to ice.

The Groom was marching my way, full tilt forward, eyes fixed on me. "Darling," he chimed, though his voice is full of malice. "Why would you do this to me?"

I lurch away, losing my footing momentarily on brittle frame of wood. I catch myself on my arms, the camera scrapes over the floor when it slips from my hand. I scoop it up, and as I turn from the tall wall corroded, paint faded and mortar chiseled in huge chunks from its sides, I see something. A large window caked with grime, but something on the other side. I saw something I didn't understand, but I thought I understood.

Time wasn't for me to gawk. I shoved myself upright and, began and broken hobble to the other end of the hall. I grunt as my leg came down awkwardly, and stumble, but I don't stop. Ruble and papers get caught under my ankle, skid under my heel. It's a makeshift corridor, one side is shelves, stuffed with crates, rotten tarps, large metal containers; the opposite side and ahead is crumbling cinder brick wall, a pipe branches upward into the ceiling.

I glance over my shoulder and catch my pursuer as he turns the corner, and hurries after me at a steady pace. As I look back, I note another wall on my right, and the same tattered lumps suspended across an inverted field. Fruits, it reminded me of fruits, or tomato baskets.

"All of you whores," the Groom scolds. He's catching up.

I heave around the corner, past portions of pallets slanted on the wall, larger pieces left across the floor. I do whatever I can to keep three steps ahead, out of arms reach. Every movement is noted in my leg, the drilling pain is missed in me but the more jagged my stagger is the harder it is for me to recover and keep from stalling. I'm going to die! He'll cut me!

A sign ahead reads Administrative Block. The arrow points to my only path, and very little help.

My foot slips under me as I stagger, and quickly change direction to follow the path. I'm in an open, bare corridor with no place to hide, no hand holds. On one side of the wall stands a large open doorway, but the threshold is packed with bookcases, plywood, everything. Ahead, in the deep shroud of the far end I can make out a glimmering, red bulb. Important. It has to mean something.

"Your judgment. Your little swinish eyes," he goes on. His prattle cuts over the wall, I can't deduce how far behind me he is.

On my side appears a shelf, and netted chain-links, I don't get a good look. I wanted to lean on it, rest my leg, but I can't. God, I can't get a breath in. The dust chokes, I'm dehydrated, mouth full of chemical and nose packed with dust. I choke on ash and blood.

The bright red letters above the door red EXIT. But the gate is locked. I lean on the door and jerk at the handle. I don't realize where the Groom is until he's right on top of me.

"The game ends here." He swipes out for me with an arm, and a long reach.

I backpedal, and duck away. The wild movement turns my ankle wrong and I collapse. But I won't stop, I'm not stopping. The Groom pursues, at a slower pace.

"I understand," he says. "That a lifelong devotion and responsibilities, they can be… overbearing. But if you'll stand by, be my devoted…." The Groom stalks toward me, one hand held close to his side, almost hidden by the tail end of his vest shirt.

I shove my feet under me, and heave my body up. I hit the wall and slide across chipped paint blotches, but I'm moving away from him. The corridor comes to a dead end stuffed with furniture, rubbish, scrap wood, and a gate. My shoulder hits the edge of an open door, and I go stumbling into the room and run smack into a tall easel. It and I go down, the shock sends me rolling, back arched. My camera hand paws at open nothing, while my other arms twitches beside my hip. A dark shape fills the open doorway.

"Ta-ta-ta," the Groom taunted. He picks up a large sheet of paper from the floor, and seems to examine it. Enough light fills the room from the windows, I can see the rich colors on the paper. Greens and blues, or something close. Once the coiling tension in my leg faded, I can get enough leverage to flip over and scrambled away. "This was meant to be a surprise."

I'm face to face with another easel, depicting a style of dress that looks dated. I have that crawling sensation in my skin again, as I shuffle around the room avoiding wood frames plastered with elaborate gown styles, dresses, faceless women; like flattened birds displaying their plaid colors; an assortment of easels – large, small, some half covered or draped in big sheets – they and the floor is littered with discarded sketches, all in color, all models in flowing dresses – long, short, elegant, casual – dozens of mannequins stand around, awaiting the death shrouds. Everywhere I look the blank faces gape at me, judging.

_"Our feet may leave home_

_But not out heart_."

The pledge is accompanied by a heart scrawled beside the word, the description, of heart. I'm trapped in this depraved nightmare, grasping at shadows and fabric, stumbling, lost, wounded. A way out. I need a way out.

A sound chokes out of my throat. I tried to answer myself aloud. Is there a way out! I'm moving, stuff the camera into its pouch as I try to find a hold on something sturdy. I check the far wall, where the windows spread light across the ghostly gowns of the art pieces. I see no doors, no openings, there is no place to hide. One of the mannequins tilts and falls when my elbow smashed into it. I'm slipping on the piles of pages sticking to my splotchy feet. "_I don't want to be here. Don't want to be here. I—_"

"The groom is not to see the bride before the wedding."

He was right beside me. I tore away, nearly hurling my body over a low spread of sheet concealing some kind of desk. It's a mere yard from the words on the wall, a doorway left ajar. Missed it! But it's there. I stumble that way, my leg catching on the easel near the door as I move. I get tangled in the spindly frames legs, and it collapses over my leg. I'm flapping about on the floor, the camera digs into my side as I thrash.

I begin to claw my way towards the door, fingers catching wood and ripping through the layers of pages scattered, falling around me. My nose catches the old tinge of wax, and blood. The combination is strange, morbid in my head. When I think of wax, I think of crayons, of cartoony pictures and portraits of a family. My family.

"Don't leave me!"

I gag. The Groom encircles my neck with his hand easily, and he drags me away from the cracked wooden frame. The easel tears off my leg, and there's an awful ripping sound. I feel fresh blood spilling from the reopened wound, trickling between my toes as I'm suspended… up above my killers head. My throat constricts when I try gulping down air; the Groom has his thumb locked under my chin. My feet jerk and twitch against nothing. I remember Blaire. Choked me. Left me to die. Tried to kill me. I… I'm not surviving now.

"I can't be alone!" The Groom, looks desperate. But he wears that grin, that smug smirk as he looks aside to the knife held in his other hand. It glints in the light from the windows.

I claw at his sleeve with my hands, digging into hard flesh and cloth. My head pulses, my eyes bulge along the edges of their worn sockets as vital arteries are restricted fevered blood flow. Some of the movements my body makes are not voluntary. The haze consumes my mind; tinges my eyes with dark, rich colors.

The Groom's eyes glow with their irritated hues. He looks up at me, and draws the weapon back along his side.

Death. This… is how I die. I don't want to die.

Someone. Anyone….

_"I'm sorry_."


	23. Chapter 23

**How does that saying go?**

* * *

**Deeper on the Surface**

His grip shifted on my throat, cutting into my windpipe. My legs no longer jerk, I can't see what's around me. But I know… I felt something. I felt that awful twisting pattern, digging into the back of my skull. It could've been anything, the pressure, lack of oxygen. For a moment, I didn't even think about my boys growing up without a father.

I just didn't want him to touch me again.

My body writhed in the Groom's grip. It's when the knife flashed in the light of the window. That's when an crease of clarity broke the floodgates, and saturated my mind with something primal.

I snapped my head around painfully in his grip, and bit down onto his thumb. The Groom was more shocked than hurt, I'm certain. His grip sprang loose from my neck and I dropped. A plum of dust lifted as my body hit the desk draped in a sheet, the legs gave out and both the table and I crumpled to the floor.

"You crazy bitch!"

I waste no time picking out a direction, it's run or die; there are no second chances. My eyes remain fogged over, I don't see clearly where I'm hurrying to or what slithers under my feet. I just want to move, breathe. I get three steps and this awful gargled sound pitches from my throat, as I take a short gasp of foul air. I have in my head where the door was, and managed to run into the splintered edge, before I managed to squeeze through the narrow crack.

Another large corridor, but with very little refuses to drag under my soggy heel. I don't notice my leg, or whatever condition it's in. I have the resolute focus on finding a way out, from anywhere. I stagger to the left, using the wall for balance as I hobble toward light peering around the corner of a wall. I skid short of a blockade of furniture, wood, stacked too high under a lamp. A door was at my back and I ran at that, breath heaving, lungs raw and cracked. I reach for the door handle right as the Groom lumbers from the room I recently departed; he's cursing under his breath, eyes flashing:

"You could have been beautiful!"

I jerk and heave through the open room, its stuffed with furniture and an endless supply of toppling bookshelves. A clear path rolls beside an easel, and I stagger onward for a row of windows in the back. The light from whatever lamp, is unable to reach the side of the room I retreat into. Cloth and rope catch under my good leg, I wheeze out as I flop forward and hit my shoulder on another bookcase. "_Keep going._" I claw my way along, nearer to the wall and some amount of cover; more bookshelves, large desks, the air is saturated with thick globs of dust and….

The strangulation hasn't helped my migraine. The air smells strange, clean. I smell water. My eyes sting, it's hard to see through the wobbling shapes distorting around and around. I don't stop, I skid over a desk and tumble to the floor on the other side. There's light, a crumbling desk, and a misplaced door to the side leaning on a bookshelf.

"Darling, stop!" The Groom's right on top of me, lunging over the desk.

I'm off the floor, staggering and half crawling toward the broken door, that stands with a shelf and a musky sheet thrown over its front. The doorway this door was meant for is wide open, and from it drags cool, fresh, crisp air. I'm not thinking as I hobble towards the open room— blocked off corridor. It's filled with nothing but shattered bookshelves, a ladder….

And a decimated window. The shred of curtains whip in the breeze and slaps my face, almost teasingly.

"No, don't, don't!" The Groom wails. I can feel him at my back, fingers reaching, scrabbling for my collar.

I don't stop, don't blink. My body pitches over the cracked windowsill and I fall; a wet tearing sound accompanies my plunge. A loop of tattered cloth rips from my forearm. Nothing is under my arms.

It didn't matter if I lived, perished - I was going to be free. They would find my body, broken but intact, with the camera, and understand that I had been utterly terrified by some pursuer, and in desperation for escape, I perished by my own doing. They would find the Groom's workshop, and the pieces will fall into the puzzle. They would be enlightened.

The fall is unceremonious. I expected to be higher, and the impact would shatter me. Instead, I crash into a large pine shrub growing on the grounds below, it snaps under my weight and I collapse into a bed of soggy grass and earth. Pain surges up my leg when I hit. I can't do anything, but convulse on my back and put my shuddering hands around the fresh blood soaked my pant leg. I'm bawling, it helps expel some of the pent up agony rippling through my body. My leg is hot, inflamed, and I can fell the soggy scraps of fabric hanging from wrecked tissue. I can't tell if its muscle, or clothing.

"You all want to leave me?" Bellowed the Groom, from somewhere above. Closer to heaven. "Is that it? You want to leave me? Fine! Go! You and the rest of those ungrateful sluts!"

I lay where I fell, partially cushioned by the broken shrub, and stare at the window where the curtain waves down at me. The pain doesn't diminish. It doesn't seem important.

The sky is overhead. Black, hideous clouds loom above the tall spires of the asylum's jagged rooftops. Nature is at war with the abomination of this terrain, struggling to consume the nightmares leaping outward. The breeze is cold, and the back of my jumper begins to soak through with icy water. The light from nearby lampposts sparkles across every surface, tree twig, weed, brick. I begin to move. Wet leaves slick up my bare arm, I make no effort to wipe them away.

I'm in some sort of courtyard. I have no idea where I am. Outside again, liberated, but contained within tall brick slabs. I crawl along the ground, towards the patch of cobblestone where my leg hit – the sensation of jagged fire smolders within my whole being, briefly. I curl up onto my side and let the surge diminish before I attempt moving again. I don't question whether I will be able to continue or not, the argument of what I am physically able to achieve is beyond perception. I won't stay here any longer than is necessary.

My eyes constantly check the windows high in the surrounding walls, particularly the one yawning frame that's shattered. I never see the return of the Groom. I half expected him to return with an elaborate rope system made by the tied ends of sheets, and he'd climb down to me. That seemed like something he would do. The idea unsettles me, and I hurry to get on my way.

As I begin to hike across the glittering path, I reach for the camera and assure myself it's still intact and with me. I carry it during my exploration, and check first a fountain encircled by the wide brick path. The fountain dominates the small yard, its water crystal clear is clotted with leaves and branch bits. As I hobble around, I see more of the same evidence. My foot sinks into the sodden soil and sloshes when I teeter off the path; the air is fragrant with a mixture of compost and ozone. A stray breeze sends icy beads peppering my face; despite an unsettling warmth in my body, I shiver.

There isn't much to see. The buildings surround this little isolated outdoors, broken and worn wood benches are set up around to face the fountain, and the picnic tables that I can find have been overtaken by tall, thick weed stalks; they shoot up between the gaps in the broken surface of the bench and table surface. At the far side of the yard I locate a cracked office desk, amid the malicious glowing scatter of glass, embedded with the mud. For a scant moment I wonder who would have the strength to throw a desk out of a window, but still be frightened by the Groom? I give that the Groom is unsettling (I quiver as I try not to recall how so), but the desk had tumbled a good few yards from the walls base, where the shattered window was stationed. It was almost funny. But I didn't smile, or smirk even a little; I slumped down and pressed my face into the folds of my arms, and convulsed against myself.

Once, I may have repeated that old-old saying to my son, about how big boys don't cry. Why would I say something like that? Or maybe I thought I said it, or pondered about just saying it. I always thought of the phrase as something preoccupied fathers tell their boys, when they're impatient and they want the kid to stop sobbing. Children are supposed to cry, aren't they? It's okay for them to get hurt or sad and just let it out. Crying is something that shouldn't be bottled up.

In the surrounding mud and grass sags the remnants of pages. Halfheartedly I sift through them, and try to tenderly pull apart the waterlogged papers. I anticipate more sketches of gowns and woman models, but instead I find packets of patient reports. Some are excerpts from an MKULTRA and other documents that dated way far back, some around the 1950s. Most were to soggy, I couldn't salvage what the details focused on, aside from some diary excerpts provided by a Shirley Pierce. One file was stuffed up under the side of the desk, and wasn't as damaged in whatever trauma had torn through the courtyard. I collect up what looked most eligible and stagger off; the chilled air soothed some of the throbbing in my leg.

I give the small yard another scan before returning to the fountain centerpiece. Under a tall, bright lamp descends a set of cement steps, at their ascent stands a bent metal door. I follow the weed riddle path and grip the rail one handed; one step at a time I drag up, laboriously. The mud slithers off my toes in the chilly puddles of water, and I have a hard time holding onto the slick metal. I'm pressed into alertness at the dull echoing report of distant rumbles, but I quickly reassure the sound is not seeking me specifically. My mind wanders, and I struggle to absorb the details before I regress again. Did it rain? The air was heavy and humid, but fresh and invigorating against the stale rot of forgotten mortar. I remember... a storm was coming?

The memory is so distant. Thunderheads swirling, building at the peak of the mountain summit. Wind ragging, tree branches bristling and lashing outward in the dark. I dreamed of gnarled hands reaching, snaring, and punishing. Screaming and eyes, bright green eyes blazing within the tall grass, judging, waiting. Ghost. A lost ghost. Cracked wood, dust, voices - suicide seemed wise.

I shoulder the bent door open and sprawl across the damp, wood floor; the files I carried scatter from my arms. Somehow, I managed not to fall on top of the camera. I lay, gawking at my surroundings; a gated in stairway and thick, spiteful shadows.

How much time? How much time was lost? I could be wrong. I can't make an accurate estimation of how long; I was drugged, left unconscious. A light preliminary shower hit before the full storm, I wasn't out for as long as I could have been. I was… I'm kidding myself. Time doesn't matter. I have to find a way… the Administrative Block. The way out, the evacuation plan. A safe passage.

I shuffle some of the files off, and scoot toward the meager blanket of illumination slithering through the gated stairwell. The windows along the walls were little more than clouded slates, and wouldn't allow the faithful lamplight residence within the buildings interior. I clear bits of lumber off a space on the floor, and begin scanning through some of the passages. A lot of the print that didn't suffer water damage was still ineligible, the ink had faded on the yellowed paper decades ago. In one stack of soaked papers, the name 'Gluskin' stuck out vividly. Brand new. How was the name pronounced?

"_They've got Gluskin out of his cell._"

Not Glue-Skin. It was Gluskin.

"_Case Number: 196 _

_Patient: EDDIE GLUSKIN _

_Consultation Dated: 2013.06.09 _

_Initial Date of Patient Consult: 2013.02.14_

_Patient Age: 46 _

_Gender: Male _

_Observing Physician: Dr. Garett Snow_

_THERAPY STATUS:_

_Lucid dreaming figures remain as murky as ever; Gluskin claims near constant control of his dream state, yet correspondence between his narrative and REM cycles. Highly arhythmic REM/NREM. Morphogenic Engine activity plateaus at 90 PPM._

_DIAGNOSTICS:_

_Heavy bronchial accumulation. The rashes associated with hormone therapy have receded and vanished since we stopped using latex tubing._

_INTERVIEW NOTES:_

_Gluskin remains a frustrating interview subject; he's still trying to tell us what he thinks we want to hear, while studiously avoiding certain elements of the truth. His childhood remains an obvious fiction, he's claiming to have grown up in "Leave it to Beaver," despite a traumatically violent ongoing sexual experience that is a matter of public and medical record. When I confronted him with the photographs his father and uncle took, he responded with a mixture of laughter and anger, and restraints were issued._

_He similarly refuses to discuss his victims, both categorically and specifically. When I showed him pictures of the women, he would not admit that they were dead or mutilated._

_He is still claiming advancement in the Morphogenic Engine program that he has not yet achieved, said that he could clearly hear the voice of the Walrider just by closing his eyes. Clearly he's still trying to curry the favor of his doctors. I won't speculate what he expects to gain by it._"

I'm not a psychologist. My field is computers, programming, technical troubleshooting, advance support. I don't deal with people, and half the time I can be a bad judge of character.

He thought the experiments would stop if he cooperated. Or he wanted to believe the treatment worked on him. I can't decide what was feasible, he was delusional but not insane. I know that look in his eyes. I know he understands what he's doing, but he plays along. He needs justification for the brutality, the murder. The Walrider program made monsters, and it turned monsters into something worse. Living breathing nightmares that followed, and would find you in the waking hours.

I bring over the camera, and push the important papers into to the light cast down from the upper floors. The camera records some images, and I remember how to snap off still frames. I linger on the task unwilling to move, while the pressing pain in my leg insists this is what I need to do. After some time I do stop, and give the floor I'm on a look over. I crawl the remainder of the way toward the steel gate and out of reflix, I try the handle.

To the side of the room stretches a wall of reinforced fencing, which fills up the open gap of the wall. The ground itself is cluttered with stacks of wood, some nails glint under the light – rusted little nipping teeth.

It's easier this time to haul my body up; the reprieve restored some of my stamina. I limp towards the darkened side of the corridor, and try trusting some weight to my heel. No doors are visible through the gloom, and I remind myself the infrared has no batteries; I was ready to check the visors feed.

A soft, whispery sound travels through the fenced off hall, and my skins crawls like ants are biting. I don't know what it is; it sounds like a voice, people watching me, quartered off by miles and miles of fences. There's no storm, not here. I pass by the gaping maw in the wall, where the elevator carriage used to occupy the space beside the stairwell. The carriage is long gone, and there are no cables either; I take the elevator box has fallen, or been stolen somehow. Stolen. That's something… something one of my….

I keep moving now. There must be a way out.

The corridor extends beyond the the edge of the elevator's compartment, into black shrouds with no definition. Opposite of where I emerge stands a hulking wood framed shelf; timid light flutters in from the large gate filling up the open side of corridor. Bookshelves, a desk, buckets clutter up the other side of the fence, and light; one end of the corridor is blinding with light. I can't get through, there are no openings or doors. I turn back, my feet slipping over dust coated plywood and timber.

When I return to the gated in stairway, I can see the clearly marked EXIT through the tall doorway in the tall fence. My shoulders shake as I remember the last time I missed an open doorway, or was it a window? I hobble around the files left on the floor, though they weren't directly in my path.

When I reach the open gate, I stop on the lights edge and evaluate the area. Desk are stacked in odd angles around the open access, and a classroom chair with trash barrels stand beside me. Cans litter the floor, empty food cans with the dried crust of its former contents caked on the edges and insides. Flies buzz around, in and around the light. I'm used to the foul odor weaved into the rags I wear, but sometimes I catch an off whiff of them rehashed – like them getting soaked in sludge and water – and it makes the stench assert itself in my dark dim spots of my mind. I can't get away from it, and can't save myself from the recollections of all the places I fought to leave behind. Shadows follow.

I hear nothing. I don't take that it means I'm safe, but I'll take it to mean I'm undetected.

The gate is locked. I lean my head on the bars and stare into a long, open, cluttered corridor, with a light at the very end. I have no indication that this is a way out, only that it leads to an escape somewhere. There might be another way to get there without this door.

An Emergency Evacuation map is tacked to the eroded wall, besides the fenced off corridor. I fumble with the camera, accidentally spurring a _click_ sound from it. I take pictures with the camera video, though, I don't have the vaguest idea how the playback or gallery works. I know I will figure it out. The map. What does the map say?

I tuck the camera away, and with a finger I trace the faded lines and boxes on the cracked board. The maps legend indicates my place with a tiny dot. I don't know if I'm reading it right, if the colors match the same as they did years ago. I rub my nose on the side of my shoulder, and keep tracing. Going by the map, I think I'm in the Vocational Block. The color keys for the Male Ward and Administrative Block are almost identical, but the diagram on the map still has some of the original tint. I think the Male Ward connected to the Administrative Block, but I can't find another way to reach the Male Ward from where I'm at currently. Where am I, what is the section I'm in currently?

I spend a little longer studying the map. It does me no good. I look once more around the small side of the corridor, judge the obstructed gate, then the gloomy half of the corridor awaiting my trespass; faint light shimmers deep within the shrouded recess; it cuts through two windows, set hovering side by side.

I get the camera out, though I'm already aware the night feed will be miniscule assistance. My leg drags on chunks of cardboard, more cans scuttle under foot as I make the slow pace through the darkened corridor. The stinted range of the night range makes the atmosphere more oppressive, and I'm tempted to retire the camera. The rancid scent of my clothing further degrades my situation.

A doorway creeps into the visor at my shoulder, between a large barrel and a massive crack in the plaster wall. I nudge the door open and enter a large supply closet with shelves; the roof above has collapsed in, plaster and cracked timber litter the side of the floor. I kneel down and check the shelf in front of me. Nothing but mildewed boxes, buckets, and ruble from the ceiling line the levels of the crumbling shelf. There is a modern day penlight, clean and brand new in a corner of the floor. I unscrew the cap and pull out one battery. For a second I debate on the usefulness of the flashlight, compared to the cameras oppressive green tinted feed… but the penlight – after I give it a try – is cheerful and bright. If I use it, it'll draw people to me. The cameras night feed doesn't do that.

With some definition to my path returned, I leave the supply closet and check the corridor. It's very quiet. Eerily. I'm so accustomed to shrieks, laughter, and disjointed ramblings in the fog; this silence seems unnatural. I'm not far from the truth. Maybe… I'm finally alone. That idea doesn't come as a comfort. I wonder… where is everyone? I'm robbed of my senses, cu - Untethered from something lurking in the nullifying stillness. Something is waiting.

I peer through a gate on my side, but the handle holds fast. It's a long musty corridor that leads into blackness; the camera zooms, revealing a scatter of furniture, papers, and a series of small lockers lining the wall. I move to the pair of doors adjacent to the gate and try the handle. Locked. I rub at the glass and peer through the mesh in the window. The night feed doesn't work with bright lights gleaming into the lens, but I decide not to loiter here. Something… dark, and foul, hovers beyond the door. I back away. Blood is splattered all over the floor, I can see threads, cables. I'm back in the workshop drenched in death and piss; people - men - are screaming, and howling. The saw is calling, skewering flesh, snapping bone.

My shoulder scuffs the chipped paint on the wall. I stand, staring at the glaring lamps searing light through the door's windows. I'm trying to press my knuckles along my camera hand, and fidget with the rough Velcro strap. I need to find a way to the Male Ward. I can't stay here.

A door stands open part way at my back. Inside it is dark, not even the camera's dissolving infrared can beat off the viscous walls of black. I hesitate at the threshold, checking my feet, my leg bent a little at an angle.

I'm standing, in what from a glance, looks like a kitchen. I have no eagerness to enter, to understand what sort of a kitchen it is. The air is heavy and has a musky, dank scent, and I pick up on old rot. It concerns me that I can recognize the degree of rot an area has suffered. But I take a step in, then another, carefully I wade through the oppressive shadows. It's like wading through tar. In my immediate path stands a large metal table, glistening in the visor against my eyes. I squint as and check around, my breath comes back to me and I smell the old blood putrefying on the camera shell.

Metal frames are slanted across the tables top, and large canisters huddle on the floor up beneath the countertops lining the walls. I shuffle to inspect the long counter mounted to the wall, and the deep squares cut into its surface. I recognize what is there, the idea of a sink feels foreign to my head, and I am reminded of how parched my mouth is; of how sore my body is. When was… the last time I had a drink?

I try the tap, and cringe down when the pipelines throb within the crumbling walls. I forget how to shut the water off, and fail to recall which way to turn the handle. After a few more turns of the handle, liquid flows freely from the pipe and the lines silence completely. Dark water trickles down the drain, but eventually turns clear and clean. For a few minutes I watch it, my gums tightening, my tongue shriveling. I set the camera aside and lean down to gulp at the water. It had a keen metallic ting, almost an earthy taste, but I judged it to be safe. I stop when I feel my stomach turn, I was half folded over and not in the best position for my aching body. My head cleared a bit, and some of the rank chemical after taste faded off my tongue.

I fumbled over the countertop until I located the camera, then, carefully eased myself up onto the countertops surface. It's difficult to balance close enough to the sink without sliding, and get the camera focused on my leg; without the night feed I can't see anything. I've never been super squeamish about cuts and things, but I've never had a hurt this bad. Gently, I pry the black fabric that is torn, and quietly pray that it isn't as bad as all the blood indicates.

It is.

I didn't get a good look at my leg – before, when it was clean(er). It's covered in fresh blood, the hot vapor of copper is strong, and dark liquid is still seeping slowly from the ruptured wound. A colorless substance pokes from the ragged flesh, but in the biased tint of the camera I can't decide what it is – tendons, muscle – I don't touch it.

The scraps of cloth weren't forgotten. They're not clean either, but I take them out of the pack anyway. None are long enough to do my leg any good, I wouldn't use them if I thought it would help. I wring them out under the tap and scrub some of the fresh blood around the wound, enough to get rid of the sticky tugging at my skin. Black globs swirl thickly down the slow trickle of the water, until most of the crust is removed. I repeat the process, but never get too close to the break in the skin. I take handfuls of water and rub at my fevered brow. It feels good, soothing. I wince as I massage the side of my head. Where I slit my forehead in the locker. I hardly noticed it.

I toss the cloth scraps, rub a little more water on my face, and take a few last swallows from the tap. The pipelines stay quiet with hardly a burble, but I don't trouble in turning them off.

I shamble away, following along the table near center of the room. My eyes search across its surface, into the depths of the black huddled confines I occupy. My strained panting is amplified on the tile walls closing in, and thud back into my ears with each struggled step I take. I can't tell if my leg is bleeding anymore, or not. It worries me. I can't feel my toes.

A shelf to the wall at my side looms, its spaces filled with can upon can of every make and size. The edge of the table ends, with what looks like a small plastic bucket in its corner. My immediate focus goes to a tall refrigerator ahead. Its wedge in between the corner of the shelf, and a long row of stoves and ovens.

I shove my hand against the surface. It feels cold, like refrigerator cold. Momentary confusion grips me. This section of the asylum, is outdated and condemned? I'm wondering this, as I feel along the edge. I stuff the camera in its pouch, and feel for the handholds. The refrigerator creaks as the worn plastic edges of its door pull from the side. Not much is inside, and the air that seeps out is thick.

The light inside doesn't work. I use the camera to examine the clear containers stashed into the shelves within; most the boxes are glass and have the crusty remains of foul decomposition. There are a few opened cans, I can't tell what the contents are through the night feed – one is corn – everything is partially eaten. Quietly, I shut the door and turn slowly, my shoulders quaking. It's the chill I insist, though I'm sweating under my crusty scrubs.

The kitchen has more items, glinting along the edges of the cameras visor. More canisters with pop lids, some marked beans, food that isn't dated from the turn of the century. All of it stuff that couldn't be here.

I'm still examining the walls packed with shelves, and the inert stoves, as I turn and move to a mobile countertop island. In the back portion of the kitchen stoves and countertops stood in clusters, near center of the kitchen. I ease over the mobile countertop, and move along the stoves lining my side; among the kitchenette gear stands a petite little trolley. Racks with hooks suspended from the ceiling, cradling large pots and skillets; the metal twitters in some stray draft, and I risk touching the icy metal to silence the eerie song. I turn quickly and limp to the far wall of the kitchen, my good foot slipping on ruptured patches of tile. The tall pantry cabinets loom at the walls, contrasted against the illuminating haze of the infrared. I come to a large corner jutting out from the wall, where I view no new pathways. There are no visible exists; no doors or windows. This is it.

Except, for the high vents in the wall. I'm staring up at one side of the jutting corner, where a vent is situated high out of reach. A pair of legs stick straight out of the vents mesh. I back away. The slacks on those legs look like civilian, but I'm sure he's dead. On the other side of the corner rests the a second vent, sealed up tight. I have no drive to climb up through there, especially if that body is in my way; the thought of touching a corpse makes my stomach churn. And I don't have a way to get through a sealed vent.

I remember the worthless pocket knife.

It takes some time for me to get into gear. I have to move one of the little trolley over to the vent, the little thing is sturdy and holds my weight when I climb onto it. I lean hard on the wall, body trembling. I don't need to fall again. Lisa would've laughed at me. She hated when I stood on the furniture, whenever she had to reach something high up. "_I've could done that,_" she'd say. Then I'd… I'd say something, like, "_But it's not safe. Better I fall._" Ha ha. I crack me up.

The camera goes into its pocket, and I find the pocketknife. It's not a swiss army, but I can still angle the blade into the screw hole of the vent and with a little patience, and a steady hand, one screw comes undone. I only undo three, and the vent cover scraps across the wall, the panel swings open at my behest.

I wobble, but manage to keep on my steady foot. The light inside the vent blinds me, surprises me. The body is there, as well. I lean onto the ledge of the vent and dither. He's not blocking the way, I'm surprised. He's been shoved through the grates of the vents, his face and arms cut into ribbons, but he's got this light gripped tightly in his hand.

I carefully pull myself into the vent, and try covering my nose with the side of my arm. He looks fresh, he shouldn't smell like that. I shut my eyes against the glare of the light. That's awful of me to think like that. I think he was a researcher. They came all the way up from the lab, to here, to escape it. He shouldn't be here. There was a way from the lab, to the….

I'm not thinking of that here. Not that, and the doors that must be waiting; the assured safety. If I can make it to the Administrative Block, this will all go away. Like a bad dream. It never happened.

I take his flashlight and check for batteries. Light slips through the slots in the vent behind me, I can see enough to avoid the thick pool that congealed on the floor of the vent. Two batteries; I tuck them into a pocket, and carefully turn over to examine the next vent. It looks sturdy. I turn back, take the empty flashlight from the corpse, and direct it up into the upper corner of the vents frame. After bracing my legs inside the container, I beat my palm onto the flashlights base. The screw pops loose. Not bad.

This process is repeated twice more, and the screws of the vent tear loose. I shove it out the rest of the way, and begin coughing. I'm hit full in the face by a rancid odor fifty times worse than the… the workshop.

I pull my body from the vent, and with great care lower down by my arms as far as I can go. I land over a large wooden frame built across the floor, and tumble onto my good side. The entire floor is wide across, covered in rubbish and wood; long, dark cables extended to the ceiling in thick bundles in every direction, the cables are mounted to the floor by exercise equipment. Lamps smolder in venomous yellows on the far side of the expanse, they illuminate tall shadows on the ragged and decaying walls; the black outlines stretch far up into the stratosphere, coalescing into something horrifying, perverse.

All dead.

They're all dead.

How long was I asleep? How long was I in the Engine?

The air is alive. Thousands of tiny wings sizzle about my head, humming away, hacking away at the delicate bits.

I get my leg under me and shove myself back against the wall. Killed them. This is what happens when he catches you. This is what he does. Mutilates, murders… people, all these people. Dozens, gutted, hanging from the ceiling. Dead. I can't look, I don't want to see anymore. I curl up into the wall and wrap my arms around my head.

"_Help! Help! Somebody help!_"

I shudder into my arms. "_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I can't help anyone._" The harder I try, the worst it gets. Like fighting a tar pit. The more I run, the harder I fight, the deeper I go. In so deep. Buried deep down in my grave. Lisa.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to come home.

"_Bodies hanging like wet laundry, like skinned rabbits. Men mutilated, hunted, and murdered. The shortest distance between any two points separates violence and ruined lust. Whatever story he's telling himself, he's not making women to bear his children, he's making women to kill them._

_Lisa, I want you to burn this place and any evidence it ever existed to the ground. Destroy the Murkoff Corporation. Bury it in shame, take away its money, wipe it from history.'_

_This man thinks he's in love. He thinks the therapy made him better. Everything reeks of death and fear. Piss and coppery blood, meat decomposing to game._"

I get my leg under me, and move. Not far, not fast. I make progress, and then I need to sit by the wall. The floor is uneven, cracked wide open in some places to where gravelly soil is visible. Pulleys are mounted to the broken floor, with cables latched to the network and strung up to the ceiling for each suspended corpse. The cables branch across the floor, a massive spider's web. Blood everywhere, body pieces, chunks fallen from the ones disintegrating at the tethers noose. The ones caught early, the ones without help.

There's no sensation that makes you feel so powerless, as when you've had to be saved. Constantly. I was dead before intervention, I should've been dead like the rest of them. Small intervention gods wouldn't let me, made me suffer this; had me survive so I could tell the story.

I wince as I pass through glaring lamps. It must've been a gym. There's outdated exercise equipment, none of it I recognize, and a basketball goalie still mounted to the high wall. I try not to look up, try and ignore the sound of insects thrumming in their warm festive vibrations. I don't want to be here, to see more than I have to.

I pause by a set of double doors, and check through the muddled glass. It's only the other hall, where I came from. I stay there, and have the little notebook on hand to write out things that I remember. Memories. A 'To-do' list for Lisa. I try and remember the favorite foods of my boys, the TV programs we would watch together. It hurts too much, and I eventually realize I don't want these things in a notebook among the morbid content I've collected. I rip the pages out, tear them up. It takes a little longer for me to collect, and get up. Keep moving. I shouldn't be moving on my leg, that much I do know. But it's worse if I stay still, sinking into my poisoned thoughts.

Too deep. Buried so deep.

Surviving is impossible. The memories will chase after me. Never rest. Always hunting.

All across the wrecked floor boards, I make out a familiar pattern of shoe prints. Heavy, large feet; going and coming from a single door at the far side of the room. A black void swirls within its cradle, rocking over the red smears of the one that must work here.

I lean hard on the door frame and peer into the depths, my shoulders shaking. There's a light, far, deep, secluded away. I pull an arm up and press my palm against my eyes. Am I hot? My hairline is wet. From the water, I was washing my face. The water helped. I actually feel better than I had in a long while; no more faces in the shadows, but for a few tinges. My focus seeps back, I can remember what I'm doing, where I must go. There has to be a way out of here, another door to the outside.

The camera shows a gate to my right, with heavy chain shackled on the door and metal rim. The corridor is long, I see an outdated furnace at the wall, and a face— A portrait, leering at me. It startled me as I crept forward; it just sort of appeared. Beyond the picture, I see an open door. I freeze when I hear that song, the melody.

"When I was a boy my mother often said to me, get married son and see how happy you can be."

I pivot, and run towards the gym. Not into the light! I skid on my good leg, and hobble into the nearest door on my side. I push the door shut quietly, and turn to the room. A communion bathroom with walls lined with urinals on one wall, and rows of lockers quartering the room into partially opened sections. I stand and scowl at the lockers, sick light filling the room through grungy ugly windows. I don't go near the lockers. Instead, I open the door and slip back out into the dark corridor.

No. No. I'm shaking my head. I won't do that. I swear I'll never touch a locker again.

I crouch down and crawl to the next door. It's where the voice came from, I think.

"I have looked all over, but no girlie can I find, who seems to be just like the little girl I have in mind."

His voice doesn't cooperate. The room I'm looking into looks like a library, I see a thin bookshelf filled with volumes and stacks of files. I take the door handle and, like a thief, pull the door shut. I can still hear him singing.

"I will have to look around until the right one I have found."

I stay close to the wall, low. The corridor reaches an L, and turns to the right. I peer around the corner with the camera, and see where the hall branches off. The furthest hall that goes left, I don't see where it ends. The nearest junction hits a gate, but as I shuffle closer I see a light. The gate… is open.

The floor above is plywood. I doubt his voice could carrier from up there, but I want to believe. I push by broken cardboard boxes and stumble over coiled cabling. My shadow distorts and races up the cracked wall at my side, the closer I get to the light that stands by the other wall. It feels like I'm running from shadows. Behind the light stands another open gate. I stoop down, holding onto the metal frame, as I check the corridor. There's nothing, but broken furniture crammed and stacked along the wall, scraps of moth eaten cloth, and crates.

I turn away and stagger back to the open corridor to my left, and stop. I take a slow breath, and let it out; then I back up a bit, my bad leg hits the light and I drop to my butt.

It's an aisle, defined and lined at the precise edge of the doorway with a white throw. The thin carpet leads to a step, and a platform. Wiped and polished seats line the aisle, a pair on each side, I estimate about thirty seats. Sheets are rumpled and hung decorative style from along the edge of the windowed corridor. At the end of it, stands a figure in a white dress. A figure that looks like it's strung up by a noose.

"I want a girl, just like the girl that married dear old Dad."

I didn't notice that my leg was bleeding again. I can see it now under the light, blood blotches staining the edge of the white throw. I feel like I'm trapped in this horror comedy. I'm up on my feet again, gawking at the scene. I move forward. The sounds of the saw hover in the back of my mind. I take a step. Shrieking, sobbing voices as they're eviscerated, torn open, savagely murdered; gutted like slobbering animals. A bend in the runway catches my heel, and I falter, nearly falling onto one of the chairs. I wonder. It plagues my mind. How long was I gone? The Engine. I was forgotten in the Engine.

I want back what they took. He corrupts everything! I survived. I survived!

What part of me is going back to my family?

I reach the Alter. It has more of the crisp white sheets hung around, with the blue back tarp. A portrait of one of the asylum's founders hangs, center, between where two are meant to stand. I collapse at the base of the mannequin – I'm not uncertain it's another corpse – its head is veiled, and wired rigging keeps it upright, blood seeped from around the edge of the neck, staining the off white cloth.

Not the same. Something in me has changed. I can feel it. I love Lisa, I still love my boys. That hasn't deviated, but…I have a thought in me. I was doing this for them. Tried to make things right. I can't undo what I've seen.

I look up at the decaying portions of the 'bride,' and the insects humming around the peeling flesh of its arms. In the outstretched hand, something glitters in the light. I stuff the camera in its pouch and stand up, a little bit. It's a key, locked in the purple fist. A key to what? Some door. I don't know if the key is meant to be here, or if the person happened to die with it clutched in their hand. At any rate, I can't get the key loose of the rigid knuckles.

I take the pocketknife, and slip the blade under the edge of the key and grip it. The flies pester my bloodied leg as I work, poking at wet skin and ripped flesh. It takes some concentration from me, to finally drag the key out of the frozen grip—

"Filthy sluts. You're like all the others."

The key tears free, and I whip around. His shadow looms across the wall, up the isle and eclipses me.

"You don't deserve my children," he bellowed.

I don't have a way out of here! To my left is a blockade of furniture and sheets, there could be a corridor behind the thin cloth but there are no guarantees. My right opened up, and in the side of the glass and wood wall, stood a gaping door with a desk braced upright.

"You don't even deserve to live!"

A lamp blazes in the ceiling of the small office. I wedge myself between the tight fit of the desk and doorframe. As I move, I can see the Groom charge up the isle and round the last pair of chairs. Once I'm free of the barricade, I grab the side of the desk and let it tilt back. It falls against the door, blocking the access only a little. The Groom halts when he reached the once open portal; I linger long enough to catch the lethal look in his eyes, before I wrench away. I don't wonder if the pinned door will hold.

How do I get out of here? There's only a stack of desks in the far corner, and a filing cabinet leaning on them. I'm about to shuffle those items about, at the same time recalling all the various constructs and piled high furniture I'd see in halls. But I stop, when I spy a door partially hidden behind a tall supply cabinet. I hobble over to it, and press my back into the wall it stands beside. I keep my body upright with my good leg, take a deep breath, and shove with my arms at the cabinet. Steadily, the large container begins to grind on the grainy wood floor. A last shove and it's out of the way.

The door swings open, and I stagger into the darkness. I fumble for the camera, tripping as I go on stacks of wood chunks. Light trails around my shoulders, detailing a book case directly to my side, an open doorway. I see the window at the far end of the hall, a heap of crates and desks piled on one side of the hall near the window. I bypass the windows empty promise and plunge forward, into the open room ahead.

Desks are set around, in corners or braced behind the rickety bookshelf in front of me. Clumps of little school desks are here and there, in various spaces, by the work desks. The longest wall of the room has two windows, and the shabby illumination reveals the frazzled lumps of dust drifting about. I make a loop of the room and find no way out, aside from the door that I entered from.

A can scuttles on the floor when I step on its side. It startles me, and I stop in my tracks, suddenly aware of those light footfalls creeping towards my only exit.

I move to the side of the room, towards two desks with front sides facing the door. I crouch down and sort of roll into the little space under the desk, and pull myself up. My eyes water as I drag my injured leg into a position that doesn't agree with it.

"You don't have to hide from me." He's in the room, walking around.

I slip the camera down to my chest, and tighten my legs together. Little coughs dig at my throat. I'm not sure if I'm fighting not to laugh, or if it's from all this dust. My eyes water. It's the dust. I can't breathe through my nose, the smell.

"I want to help."

"_Shut up. Please, just shut up_."

I hear his footsteps move around the room. Carefully stepping, pausing. I don't have the camera up, I can't see where he is, if he's standing near my desk. That might be best. I'm holding my breath, struggling to bury the shivers rocking my shoulders. Each little tremor rips through my leg, nipping at nerves.

I lose track of time. It feels like hours have passed. I'm sure it's only been minutes. But I'm breathing a little easier, and I don't think I hear his steps. Did… did he leave? Is he gone?

I won't move immediately. I wait longer, listening. He could be sitting somewhere, waiting for me to look up. I don't know how he navigates the dark, if it's something he's accustomed to or if the treatment… I don't know. It made him so crazy he's somehow aware.

There's no sign of him. Nowhere in the room. I lean up over the desk, the camera in my hands as I scan one section of the room, then try and zoom on the other. Vacant spots between desks, bookshelf, and the clusters of school desks. My gasps haven't settled. He knows I'm here, and I don't know where I should go… there's no place.

Something heavy slips in my sleeve. I prod the folds, and pull out the key. Right. I stuffed it there on impulse. Old habits. What does it go to? I turned it over under the night feed. Battery was going out. I need to… Male Ward. The keys handle read Male Ward. I saw that door, locked. Okay.

I changed out my battery, and limped over to the open doorway. It was two doors, the shut door was barred by large filing cabinets. I leaned on the frame and scanned the hall. Tables stood in the corridor, pipes connected to the wall on one side. I could see the open gate, and the flicker of light from the lamp at the Alter. No sign of the Groom.

I lean on the wall, and slip over the tables, quietly. No singing either.

The other end of the corridor, the window beyond the door, has no evidence of my pursuer. I move slow, stop at any hint of sound or off hum. The hall is vacant of presence, except for the dull tingling in the back of my ears. I doubt he left, but this silence. It feels like I'm the last sane person alive.

Sane. What is sanity in this place?

I stop dead at the edge of the corridor, between the gate and the next intersecting corridor. Something has changed. Not in me, but around me. Or I am insane—

"Darling."

That was right beside me. I don't look back, I buckle forward and get moving— NO!

The Groom comes right out of the door, to my side. I catch his smile as I brush by, I stay on my feet but my balance is badly compromised – my first impulse was to pivot, but on my legs I can't. The Groom is behind me, screaming.

"Whore!"

I use the furnace to my side and leverage myself forward, get some distance. He's not in his leisure stroll, he's huffing right on my neck. I know where I'm going, I have the key clutched tightly in my hand as I try and put my weight on my bad leg, utilize it like I'm not some kind of wounded creature. He cussing after me, trying to call me back with praise and promises of a beautiful life together. I'm heading to that room, the death.

The bodies still hang, still sway from the broken rafters of the ceiling. My heel catches on the first cable I stagger over, but I have no right to fall. Something cold and wet hits the back of my neck, I swerve sideways shaking my head and rub at the gummy little drop.

I hear the Groom snort something as he topples over like a sake of meat, into a cracked opening in the floor. I don't know what happened, but I like it.

The Groom lurches to his feet, while I'm not watching. I hear him snarl some profane phrase, something I don't care for. Even with my battered leg, I do a better job than him evading the cables taunt in every direction on the floor, but I have no choice. I'm trying to lift my leg over them, hopping and stumbling, without jarring my wound too much. I do a footballs tackle into the wall under the vent and crash to my shoulder; the camera tumbles out of my grip and I drop the key.

"You're nobody's mother!"

I pull the key out from under the crumbling edge of the wall and toss it up into the vent. It clatters somewhere, but I'm assured its safe. I snatch up the camera, stuff the strap in my mouth and haul up the exposed wood frame of the wall. While making a beeline for the vent, I glimpse the Groom off my side. I think he thought I was caught, a flash of fury crosses his eyes as he lunges the last few feet. I lose my grip once, but don't loose steam on the adrenaline pumping through my veins. The strap in my teeth helps, I'm gnawing through it as I vault up the last few rungs and steady my swaying body.

The leap isn't easy, the frame was a good yard from the vent and I wasn't up high enough. Needless, my chest plows into the sharp edge; I gag and claw at the vents inner casing, dragging my legs out of the Groom reach. I heave my body forward by my arms, and plow into the body crammed into the opposite end of the vent. I let out a loud bark, and twist over. For a moment I sit there, waiting for Him to follow.

I hear nothing, aside from my ragged breath echoing inside the metal case. I feel uncomfortable, with the metal around me. The key is where it landed, at the vents edge. I lean over and make a quick grab of it, and get the camera strap out of my teeth.

I'm wary now, as I linger in the other side of the vent. The kitchen has done nothing in my absence, as far as I can tell. The trolley is below, where I left it. I can scoot it aside with my foot, as I lower down backwards. If I try and step down on it, it'd probably slide out from under me. I endure the driving scorch of my drop, and crawl back to my feet.

Male Ward. It'll connect up to the Administrative Block. The exit. I can lock the door behind me, keep this key.

I lean through one of the kitchens doors, and check the dark corridor. It connects the gym, and this hall, but I see no sign of disturbance. The foul cans on the floor haven't been moved. No one's been through here.

The key is sweaty in my grip. I remember where it's been, and I'll be glad when I can put it away and not think about it. I slip it into the keyhole, it fits. I did have doubts that would, finding it—

Strong hands snare my shoulders from behind, I buckle forward before the grip flips me around. Christ!

The Groom digs his fingers into the side of my neck, his digits tear into muscle. He draws the other arm back, I expect the blade, but a fist flies out and smashes into the side of my jaw. I pitch over, blood spewing from my lips and nose.

I'm close to the floor, on my hands and knees. Red droplets dribble from my face onto the musty floorboards. I try and get a breath in, but hot fluid floods my throat. God… is my nose broken? He's behind me closing in. He screams about how I wronged him, about the whores, ungrateful and filthy. God, he never shuts up.

I lunge off my feet. I'm light a pound. Lost the camera. Cameras gone! I left the it somewhere, heard it hit- Have to run, don't know where I'm— Dark—

"One more." I wrench around, painfully. The fire in my leg tears up my side and burns into my spine. He holds me by the fabric of my scrubs, and drives his fist across my brow. "I try and I try." I teeter backwards, arms whirling at my sides. He hammers at my face, a left and a right, again and again. The walls spiral as vision fades, my throat gags on blood and spittle. Cold pain spreads over my chin and nose, searing the bone. God… did… he's killing me.

The Groom barrels forward, slams his shoulder into my chest and hurtles me backwards. My back plows into a hard surface; everything turns bright as I crumble. A deafening thunderclap blasts through my ears, and snaps; I'm stunned by the collision. I lay on my back wheezing through hot fluid, gurgling.

He's not holding me.

"And you all betray me." The Groom glides through my peripheral. I'm trying to stay focused, fighting to keep my eyes open. Where is he? "And you can hang like the rest of them."

Something flutters in my sight. A cord. It tightens around my throat immediately, and I feel it drawing my body backwards, across splintered timber and tacky puddles. Shit! Oh god- God, No! Not that!

The Groom sweeps by my side. He's pulling on the rope, hauling my body up. I'm jerking my legs, my fingers loop under the noose and claw at the bind. I'm being drawn up by my neck. My neck! The rope cuts into my throat and bites into my fingers. My ankle catches one of the ropes as I'm grinding over it, but I lose my grip as I tumble over a lumpy cold, wet thing. A decomposing torso. It flops around under my legs as I kick. Weightlessness engulfs me, inch by inch. With every little twitch of my legs, the hold of the rope tightens; the haze in my eyes thickens. I can't breathe. No! NO!

The shadow works, the Groom pulls and heaves and I ascend higher into the putrid valley of the victims that didn't escape the blade.

"Heavier than you look," he chirped.

The rope steals away my breath, my life, my mind. I'm surrounded by death, by the failed brides defiled by poisoned dreams; unfulfilled wishes. Ripped chunks of flesh gleam at me, bone; the air is stagnant, foul, overpowering. The wild cacophony of the insects collide with my mind, gnaw at my leg. I'm next! I'm Next! Everything is polluted and spoiled, but my body craves air; my lungs blaze, the pressure builds in my ears, I want to swallow down rancid gas and survive damnation.

The Groom… is somewhere out of sight, doing something with the rope. The sounds I make when I'm choking. They pitiful gurgles, barks— my legs spasm. I sneeze at the dust failing into my eyes, a guttural rattle bubbles in my chest when my inner mechanisms strive for a snatch of air. Breath no longer escapes my throat, and I know I've stopped breathing.

"If this is you on the honeymoon, I'd hate to imagine our anniversary." I drop a foot, and the rope constricts my throat. There's a crackling sound, like my vertebra is snapping through my neck. I don't feel my extremities below my collar, and am certain at this rate I'll be decapitated. I wish… I hadn't have ripped up those notes to Lisa and the boys. I sob on a swell of blood, and drop another foot, nearly to the floor. Delicate bits of timber scuttles down over my ears and neck. I can taste splinters on my tongue. The roof….

Is collapsing.

I heave my body, kick my legs and thrash at the rope in my fingers. The rope squeezes and tears into my windpipe, but the sawdust is getting thicker, I'm force to squint or risk getting chunks of sawdust under my eyelids. A beautiful _Snap!_ ignites from above. The rope doesn't lessen, but I plummet to the floor and hit. My hands snap free from the noose around my neck, and I have momentary relief.

"Hold still." The Groom skids across the floor, he nearly loses his footing on the web of lines he's drawn taunt into his pulley and rigging. "God damnit, what are you..." He bucks backwards, hauling the line that's tethered to me.

I'm very weak and dazed. I feel the rope double its punishment, and draw me up. "_No._" My foot loops under one of the cables and I lock my resolve there. The rope tightens under my jawline, I feel my tongue loll weakly at the corner of my mouth. I sputter, and taste copper.

The Groom gives a yelp as he's dragged forward. He refuses to release the noose. I kick my bad leg, and grip at the coil encircling my neck. "Damnit darling! No, you need to behave."

I'm not budging.

"No, no, no, no..."

I bend my leg, the rope tightens, and I pull. My bad leg jerks and claws at empty air. Each negative action rains down more dust and timber. I catch sight of the Groom with the side of my eye, he stands below shaking his head vigorously. That's what it looks like, it's difficult to see through all the blood. He refuses to stop, and I can't stop. This is how I'll die - be pulled in two, but I won't be strangled and strung like a piece of meat.

I take in one last scrap of rancid air, half of it sawdust, most of it blood; my leg lurches back at the line. It feels like my chest is primed to splint wide, and my throbbing heart will spill out. My whole bodies on fire, ripping, I can hear the vertebra in my neck creak under the strain.

Something gives. A splinting crack ruptures somewhere, and I;m sure I've done it. My head has torn clean off.

The loop on my throat comes undone, and I take in air. Foul, diseased air, but it oxygenates my body, revives my senses at once and I'm in a halo of euphoria. The sensation flares in my eyes bright and all at once instantaneous, my ribs expand painfully and I inhale sharply on musty wood dust. The Groom flies up in a tangle of body parts, I miss most of it through the haze. I'm still suspended by the noose, but it loosens. I'm swimming on air, flying. I can't feel the floor under me, there was—

My hand is snagged. I tilt my head around, and grimace. The Groom has my hand in an iron grip, clutching my fingers. His shape shudders; I can feel his palm quake in mine. A pole from the floor has driven him through, blood glitters in the light as it spills unrestrained. Like a geyser. He must be in pain.

"We could have been," he paused, and looked at our embraced hands. "Beautiful." His hand rips free. The Groom flips upward, and I plummet downward.

I hit the floor on my bad leg, and gargle ugly sounds. Some of the drop is broken by my arm, but not enough. I paw numbly at my neck and tear the noose off. Damn thing…brushes my bruised face. I roll over, avoiding a severed head and an explosion of flies whirling skyward. I lean far over on my arm, get the weight off my leg, and take another breath...

And vomit fluid, mostly blood. It's not vomit, it's what my throat gathered when I was deprived of air. Phlegm. Every breath I take, more of the swell gushes forth, until my throat and nostrils are raw and sore. I stare at the fresh puddle of blood growing under the cable lines. Blood and soupy blue, and purple streamers of veiny membrane. I turn over and stare up and what's left of the Groom. The pole jammed him right through one side of his torso, and sawed directly to the other end. The metal is coated in gore, bits of rib, and noodles of organs hang from the massive rupture, convulsing this and that way in a rive of futility; blood spills from the hollow end of the pole like a straw.

I steel another shallow breath and do something that terrifies me. I smile. It's the first time, I hope, since I awoke in the glass room. I smile, and I laugh a little. He's dead. I'm alive, and he's dead. He can't follow me, I don't have to hear that awful song.

Oh god, I'm laughing. Shrieking, wailing. I try and stand— I collapse over one of the cable lines, and the Groom's arm sort of trembles. I'm giggling. No… no, I'm….

Crying.

"_He's dead. The amateur surgeon, father-to-be, husband. His guts shredded and pulled from his belly. I'm trying not to laugh. Oh, God, Lisa, I swear to you I'm trying._"

I don't know if I'm laughing still, crying, or what. My arms bundle around my ravaged, bloody face and I rock. I try to get up, I try to get away from this place, but I fall again. It's what I want, I have to move; my body won't keep going on—

I can't do it. I just... can't. I drop off, deeper and deeper, down, down, down. It feels good to let go, plunge into nothing. I watch the shadows shimmer up the ravaged walls, and stretch and grow. They were always there, always waiting. I feel it chatter into my thoughts, preening for the perilous fragments. It stole what was me, and gave something back, something that isn't quite me. I'm in too deep. How can… I escape this place?

I never feel the floor. I just keep falling, for miles and miles.

Miles. That's how the saying goes. Miles up shore without a paddle.


	24. Chapter 24

**The Cynic and the Whistleblower**

"_Waiting in the mountains."_

"_Going to deep_."

"_Dream therapy._"

I hear the voices whisper. Are they people? It's not safe to idle long in one spot. Have to get out, have to find help.

There is a way out. The EXIT sign gleams above the gaping doors welcoming me into a night, filled with shrieks and thunder flash. No one can stop me, I don't care what awaits out there, I can't stay here another minute.

Wild fire splints the sky in jagged scars, briefly illuminating the soaked soil. I don't see through the torrents of suffocating water, but there are corpses. Bodies tangled in barbed wire, patients wandering aimlessly from one yard to the next through breaks in the fences, sometimes actual windows with wood frames and curtains whipping frenzied in the storm. I'm safe from the patients but trapped behind the fences, racing here and there searching the icy chain-links for a break. The air buzzes with an intensity I don't understand, like the whole mountain's about to capsize on itself. I know I have to get away, put distance between its looming presence and myself, my sanity. It tries to follow, hounding me as I duck and weave under low hanging branches slashing at my wounded hands; it buzzes, and I run onward half blinded with the green tint swelling in my right eye. The glow catches enough of the ground to keep my legs from pitching me forward, but each step I take I feel I'm falling deeper into the black swill of tar.

Fences are endless. One corner turns into another alley, that alley doubles back to another locked gate. Dozens of eyes glitter back at me from the other side, dead heads stacked like bottles behind a bar, tongues loll out loose jaws; I see shoulder but sometimes nothing holds up the ragged red tissue. The thunder booms, but it can't drown out the rustling murmurs at their lips.

"Walrider."

"Walrider."

I scream back at them, my throat filling with glacier rain. "I don't understand!"

The voices won't hear me and mutter on, the clack of their teeth resonates into a thick hum. I grip my ears as I tear away, seeking paths that dead end, that turn away, openings appearing, disappearing when I backtrack. The whirring hurries into my wake, filling my brain with a blazing pulse. Warm liquid spills down my lips.

"No more escape."

"Sufficiently disturbed patients."

Lights sparkle and sputter across the interlinking fence wire. They're not the patients, it's the doctors performing clinical observations of each other and taking notes. The mutter about psychosomatic tendencies, the PPS delusions that appear swiftly in sane men and leaves them committed to the facility.

"Effects are too varied to effectively identify outcomes."

"All doors will open."

Lies. The corporation lied and buried its evidence under two miles of solid rock, but it wasn't dead.

Streamers of flesh interweave with the chainlinks, rotten skulls gaze in at me with vacant eye sockets. Everywhere I look there is a piece or part of someone, strung out to soak in the onslaught of weather. There is no air to breathe, I'm either inhaling noxious fumes of pungent rot or gulping downs gallons of copper and water. I scream at the futility:

"I just wanted to go home! I wanted my family!" But no one is alive to hear.

"Nobody cares about a few forgotten lunatics."

In the fence stands a window, waiting. I crash through the shattered frame and climb down, down, down; among shattered furniture, ripped cloth, and stacks of bookcases. The dust chokes my lungs, it hovers in the gray air and reminds me of something kindred to fairy globs. A shaft of light pulsed and flashed, slicing cleanly through the murk; it isn't my intent to follow the shimmering glean, but my route weaved around the bookshelves clears enough that I can see the glass box where the light burns through.

Somehow it's outside, and somehow I'm inside; the structure is a macabre mutation of broken wilderness, shrubs, condemned walls, trees, shelves, and glass. I stare between a shrub and the edge of the wall, and at the man behind the glass. The silhouette of Jeremy Blaire punches out the blazing kaleidoscope of grays, the edge of his stained coat barely visible through the fractured gloom; he's a private audience to a screen clashing with twisting shapes, convulsing images. "_Go blind. Go blind, you bastard_."

But I realize with dawning horror, that this is not my nemesis.

I throw myself at the glass, slamming my fists onto the dense surface and scream. With no effect. "Don't do that!" I cry. The twisted shadow is motionless; his outline superimposed with the fluctuating contortions made him blurry, but aside from the illusion of jerking movements, he doesn't budge. "You don't understand! It's not safe! Not safe! That's the Engine!" I tighten my eyes and drag my head down, but it doesn't block out the chorus of whirring, or the warped patterns – Rorschach's – gnawing into my skull. "No." I choked out. "I'm sorry. I fucked up. I'm sorry!"

It's all gone. Everything. The definition of my surroundings dissolves into black mounds, each one huddles at the edge of my vision and flutters away. I thought at one point, I saw my wife look upon me with such pity. I don't want her to see me with those eyes. I survived, I deserve more.

That thought riddles my eyes with bitter tears, and I cough back a wet sob.

The man watching the Engine was there. His shadow stretches far into the rafters above, and becomes each corpse dangling. I blink away the drowsiness cluttering my eyes and stare, blankly, at the shadow hovering over my face. As it comes into focus, I still won't move. A sharp tingle digs into my spine, the last impulses of flight instinct nudging me; I don't so much as breathe.

The Groom is dead. His new state doesn't make his presence any more appealing. I can only be gratified that he can't move or talk, or stare at me with his glowing red eyes.

Cold, wetness seeps into my rumpled sleeve. That, too, fails to spur me into action. I have this lingering fear in me that if I do move, the Groom will reanimate and claw his way after me. I'll spend the rest of my miserable existence hobbling through twisting halls and fences, with his chapped, gnarled hands grabbing at my heels, licking up my blood screaming _Darling_. I don't doubt he isn't capable of any of this.

In a way he'll have that legacy he wanted, probably not the way he intended but how am I to know? I won't be forgetting him, and in that way he is immortal. It's not fair, but it's the first truth I've encountered.

Little pieces trickle back into me. My bad legs twitches, and a nettle of ice ripples through my hip. It gets me moving, first my arms dragging me away from the syrupy puddle, then my better leg pushing at the course floor of the gym. I use one of the sawhorse gym equipment to hoist up onto my feet, and drag my leg along. It's stiff and very sore, but not the dismantling ache that made my bones crumble.

I only recall the camera when I reach for it on impulse and realize I dropped it somewhere. Its absence alarms me, but I'm not panicked. I do stumble upon it when I retrace my steps through the large corridor, where the Groom confronted me. It wasn't a problem to find either, the device only tumbled up under a piece of cardboard and the visors sheen was glistening against the dusty floor. I picked up the camera, and straightened out the visor.

I'm compelled to return to the gym and film the ragged and fresh corpse, dangling by his internal organs. I needed to do this, not for satisfaction. I need reassurance. Even under the deafening thrum of joyful insects, I can still hear him humming, his singing. I'll need frequent reminders that he can't follow me now; that his eyes were blank and cold, and the Groom was pinned in place. I witnessed his death, then filmed his corpse.

The gate to the Male Ward was still closed, but unlocked. I pulled the door after me and stand where I am, gathering up the long open corridor before me. I had the strangest sense of Déjà vu. It was a hall like the countless others I'd been running through all… days, left to gather decay and fall apart. Dry timber and card board littered the floor; the paint cracked, and the plaster shown through in some places.

I take my time pursuing the light far ahead. I've gotten to close to the sun before, and it burned my wings away. How far I fell. I remember falling down, down, down, through miles of chiseled, white rock. There is no safety, there is only how long you're willing to delay the inevitable.

The sign on the wall in front of me reads MALE WARD. The Male Ward was connected to the Administrative Block, if I remember correctly. If the doors were open, and this side of the asylum hadn't been ravaged by the chaos. I could find another way out, a window. The fact was no one would keep me from leaving. No matter what.

The hall felt quiet, almost too quiet.

Another lamps blazes around the corners edge. I pause and pick up a piece of dry kindling, after I see more of the same wood piled at the end of the intersecting hall. The door of the gate is torn off and lays in the doorway, and I carefully step over it as I reach for the wood rods. The piece I pluck up is from a broken stool, which lies with buckets and pipes. Its short, but I can reach the floor with it if I lean on my right. This'll make using the camera impossible, but I'd always have the option of ditching the stick.

The air was permeated by the rustic wood and beaten plaster. But other scents were layered into it. I studied the deep pit behind the gate before me, locked and blocked with furniture. I wondered if on the cold drafts, there were unseen things content to hide. Things that could peer back at me unseen, and watch with apprehension as I escaped their reach.

I tottered to my side, toward the broken door that led into the next hall. I imagine hearing sounds and rustles, but the disturbing echoes faded as I fled in my unsteady, lopsided pace.

The metal hinges of the door creak, as I heaved the door shut in my wake. I stand in a small connecting room with one door directly in front of me; framed portraits with clouded glass were fitted to the adjacent walls at my side. Carefully, I slid aside a metal frame of something standing on the rubbish, crammed in front of the door in my direct path. The camera juggles between hands, before I give up and shove it under arm. The door was locked anyway. I pushed the metal frame back onto the pile of plywood and crap, and struggled over to the next door on the adjacent wall.

Red light flooded the next room, and for a moment I thought that somehow I was locked in a purgatorial loop; I was returned all the way back to the plastic walls, the strobe lights pulsating like a boiling heartbeat, where death and insanity replayed over and over, never ending.

No saran wrap coated the walls, the floor and ceiling were bare of metal; all the broken plaster and cracked wood was exposed. The light came from a window, an ordinary but muggy window. I can't tell if it's the light of dawn, even when I'm pressed up against the thick glass. The skies aflame with vibrant oranges and reds, yellows and grays; the day before fog is slithering back into the distant hills— those are mountains. It's looks like the sun rolled up over the horizon and plowed right into the side of the Mount Massive's Asylum, and on the side with the cross no less. Everything is on fire, the feral flames latch tight onto the nearest eaves of the building they've infested. The trees across the asylums grounds are bristled upward toward the inferno, pleading mercy from their inevitable fate. A few slanting roofs and chipped eaves do remain, but how long will that last?

I didn't even know there was a church in this place.

"_A chapel on fire in the distance. I didn't even know we had a church. Where's God when you need him?_"

The cold edge of the bookcase digs into my side, as I lean on it for support and write. I need the support while I'm sitting. The 'cane' I propped by my knee slips and falls onto my waist, right behind the little notebook I entrust my mind into. I raise the camera and catch the glimmer of fresh blood along my sleeve, from the Groom. But I focus on my leg, propped up on the crook of my other foot.

I reach over and rub at the cold skin under the tear in my pants, and only feel flesh. My leg doesn't feel the texture of fingers brushing over it, just this slight vibration. I start shaking again, and drop the booklet and pen and curl up into myself. My arms lock tightly around my body and keep myself together. I have to hold tight, make sure some of me gets back to Lisa.

Lisa… oh god, baby. I'm sorry. Please. Please-please, forgive me. It's all I'll ever ask for, I swear love.

Time continues at its ill-gotten pace. I hold out, whimpering and shuddering at the cold prodding through my skin. A migraine throttles the entirety of my head, when I finally pry my face from my arm folds. Its lighter outside, the maniacal tones of color pulled back. I don't move at once. I'm drained mentally and physically. I know I can't wait, but it's a struggle to convince myself that there will be good things waiting for me. I lie to myself. It's all I have left to barter with.

I use the brittle stool leg to push me up, its snaps and I hit my palm and elbow hard to the floor. With a deep sigh, I use the wall beside me to lean on and ease up. The hall turns to the right, into another segment of murky hall. I bring up the camera, pausing by instinct as I reach a doorway. Clutter fills the furthest corner, wood pieces are nailed together; I'm careful not to step on them. I hug the corner at my side and struggle around the edge, without antagonizing the cracked timber.

No movement. A metal canister lodged with pipes and some sort of wooden construct, stands in the immediate range of the grainy green tint, but the cameras reach is limited. It also needs a battery.

As I move through the inky black, I'm sure voices come forth... from somewhere. I stop by a gate at my side and I try the handle, while my eyes struggle to take in the steps curving and descending behind the segregation door. That would take me to the lower floor.

I'm startled by a wicked flash in the cameras feed, and recoil. It's nothing, it's—

"Um. Let's just say he's dead."

I frown. That voice, I don't think I recognize it. It sounded sane, almost naïve, as if such a thing could be allowed to roam here. Slowly, I strafe along the wall, and toward the next gate in the corridors end. Light oozes through the reinforced lattice and drenches the floor, I'm cautious of drawing to near but I can see enough of the next room ablaze in fresh light. My head is baffled by what I witness. Guys in tact suits, armor. Soldiers. With guns. They're covered in crimson blotches gleaming, they're heavy boots saturated and slickened. They're casual; talking amongst themselves. This neither alarms, nor comforts me.

"Yeah. What kind of sick fuck would do this to somebody? Even took his god damn pants."

At their feet lay a body. One soldier turns the headlamp mounted to his helmet down to the corpse, and illuminates it. I take my camera, in normal function, and manage to zoom in on the body.

The figure on the checkered tile is shirtless and boney; I take from the dialogue that he is pants less under the cover tied to his waist. I'll also go the extra mile and take that the body there wasn't supposed to be dead. Though, I don't know what else he should be, the victim didn't look healthy.

"Tell you one thing," snapped one of the soldiers. "I've seen enough dicks and balls tonight to last me a lifetime. And not all of them attached to a man. Let's wrap this up and get back to the truck."

With that final exchange, the group begins to file out of the room, headed towards a gate at the furthest corner. As they depart, I lean on the thick mesh of the gate and watch them go. Things come together a little at a time.

The soldiers being here. It changed nothing. I'm not surprised I don't scream after them. A timid, ghostly little rasp, my face coated in blood. I pull my sleeve up and dab at my swollen cheek, the only part of my face that could tolerate pressure. I won't pretend they're here for my benefit. I'm already well versed in Murkoff's tactics.

Erasure.

The problem is, they don't understand what's happened. None of them have seen what has the rest of us running.

"_Corporate cops, mercenaries, private military contractors, whatever they call them now. They're as helpless as the rest of us. Need to get out. Escape_."

What will happen? I wonder this as I move to the pair of doors on my right. One door is left ajar. I stop before shoving through, and study the murky window of the doors. Through dark gloom ahead I see light stretching across the hall, gliding down across walls and floor. They're sweeping the area, I can't get caught on this side.

I push the door in with my shoulder, and limp carefully on and off my bad leg. Some of the wallpaper is still intact, its colors tinged green and darker green; portraits still hang, the filmy surface of the glass glares upon my progress. My focus fixes on the furniture ahead, and furniture beyond that. A door is at the very end of the hall. I slip over a formation of desks propped up in my path. And stall. The lights of the soldiers glimmer through the windows in the doors, but there is a gurney parked in front of the door.

"All teams authorized for deadly force," a scratchy voice ordered. The radioed voice was not nearby, it was projected through plaster and Plexiglas. "Repeat, all teams deadly force. Kill anything that moves." The tone was calm, controlled. In the distance, I could pick up on the chatter of… weapons. Coming nearer and nearer, as I crouched by the wall and struggled to be absorbed into the plaster.

I never actually heard the sound of weapon fire that wasn't from television. On the news or something, but never in actual life; I have never seen or heard a gun fired off, not even in a demonstration. It was a chilling noise. And the report is crisp, in persistent succession. They were cleaning up the fallout.

Shooting anything that moved.

I jerk to the open space on my left. The camera shows a door blocked by desks, and a bookcase. I edge forward, trying to stay low despite the burning pain lodged in my leg. The soldiers that I see, are moving forward to a hall ahead; I am slinking through an open pair of doors and around the corner, straying in the opposite direction as much as possible.

The windows of the office station are obliterated. I stay out of the light, and keep plastered to the wall I'm strafing along.

A bright glare blinds the cameras NV briefly. The corridor hits another set of doors with windows, and I see the glimmer of light as the soldiers bob around on the other side.

I launch off my bad leg and topple into the open room at my side, and all its revealing glory. Files are scattered everywhere, the folders tear under my bloody feet as I scramble behind the desk to the far corner of the room, where there is no cover to conceal in. There's the shattered window that faces the gore soaked gurney blocking the door, but it's reinforced mesh and I know it's built to resist a riot. A second desk sits placid under the window, an open filing cabinet rests in the far corner of the room. A corkboard hangs from the wall, and portraits of landscapes. Nothing. If anything, the room will be combed floor to ceiling with no detail overlooked.

I shamble to the desk beneath the damning lamp gleam and climb under. At the same time I'm getting into position - and the monitor on top of the desk topples over - a loud _Crack!_ erupts from the doorway I lunged through. I lower down beneath the little slit in the desks upper edge, and listen to the steady clomp of boots closing in.

"—gives me the creeps," the voice muttered. The weighted steps enter at the door and pause. I can see the top edge of his collar, glistening with crimson, but I can't see his face.

"Could be worse," added, at the first soldiers backside. Movement and sound began the systematic pace around the room. "It doesn't feel right. Y'know? When some of the far-gone-ones just lay there, whimpering about their hallucinations."

"Orders are—" He stopped there. I waited, for the predictable end of that line. Sudden stifling silence held the room; no distant gunfire, or yelling. I pressed the side of my head into the edge of the camera.

A noise splints through the office. I'm jarred by it, but more by something heaving the desk hard against my spine.

"What the—?" What follows is a stream of curses, and scuffling. I don't see half of what happens. The desk was crushed down over my head, and I'm more than willing to stay scrunched up until the violence extinguishes itself out. A chair splinters across the wall somewhere, pieces of furniture scatter on the floor beside my shoulder. I stay absolutely still, petrified.

"It's a runner!" A shout, the pitch sounds strained, wounded. More shooting, and cursing ensue, but the thunder of feet tear out of the room; panic and the clatter of gunfire recede.

As suddenly as the calamity ignited it was over. Its effect clings to me, and I shake into the cool wood hugging me. Lying where I am begins to refine sharp memories lining in the thin surfaces of my mind; smells and sights, blood. I claw my way out from under the desk, and half stumble over to the meshed window across the room. I see nothing around the corner, the soldiers carried lights. I glance over my shoulder and spy the source of the dilemma.

A vent was torn from the wall above the desk. That little diversion saved me, unless the tactical—

"_From: Helen Granat _

_To: group8416 murkoffcorp . lu _

_Subject: Rudolf Wernicke Phase-Out_

_Dear Sirs,_

_The ground work has been laid to ensure an uneventful egress for Rudolf Wernicke from structural and financial systems at Mount Massive. His advanced age should alleviate any suspicions among contractors and employees, (among whom he has been cheerfully nicknamed "The Crypt Keeper,") and legally speaking he died years ago._

_I understand patients 14306-8, 14279-1, and 14868-1 have already been scheduled for transit. We're all terribly excited at the obvious profit potential of the new project. My researchers have combed through Wernicke's files and found no mention of the three "lucid dreamers." I think we can safely assume Wernicke was sufficiently distracted by the partial success of the patient Billy Hope (along with his own infirmity), to be ignorant of the real discovery at hand._

_Even minimal exploitation of these resources is hard to overestimate. I only hope the new facility is sufficiently shielded to allow female staff, so I can see what comes with my own eyes._

_Respectfully, _

_Helen Granat _

_Murkoff Legal Mitigation Dept._"

I read through the open file at my hand five times, even recorded it. Wernicke. Wernicke… the old German doctor. Oh god, what did they do? It's not enough they kill us, they want to repeat the same mistakes. They don't understand. They don't know what's been done. Haven't witnessed enough of what clawed its way out of the grave.

Other files are recorded over, briefly, but the one I just read. I fold it up and stuff it into one of my pouch pockets. I scramble to the door and lean on the frame as I check the hall. The cameras enhancement needed another battery. I change it without a thought, and keep moving. The door the tactical came through is obvious, its flat on the floor. Crossing over the doorways access-way was plywood, nailed on from the other side, an attempted reinforcement. The second at my side remains boarded up in the same fashion, in haste; some of the timber pieces still lay at the floor unused, along with scattered nails.

Someone was trying to stop something, or slow it down. I could think of numerous things from the top of my head.

The tactical, they were going after the victims. The ones running away, hiding. And if they find me….

I cringe back when I hear gunfire. It's very close, but not on top of me. I glimpse the hall that continues to the left, and back up toward a pair of doors. I raise the camera up to level with the mesh window in the door, and tilt the visor down to face me. A hall extends beyond the door, filled with soldiers, their headlamps gleaming off the broken plaster as they roam in tight formation. The group sweeps by, while one figure remains in the hall, his back facing me. I flick the cameras screen, and zoom in on the solider. He holds something in his hand, looks like an iPad. It must have a map or be in communication, or hold everything critical for their mission.

A thought trickles into my mind. I turn and hurry my steps, using the wall at my side for balance. A door to my side is blocked by a gurney and tables, I keep moving. They made a way through here, and it will lead out of this nightmare. But the thought begins to grind at my head, my morals. I stumble over the broken door that I missed, laying smack dab in the middle of the hall. They came through here. I'm beginning to accept that everything the soldiers were told before arriving here, was probably a lie. And that Truth condemned them all to their inevitable fate.

My body crashes into the musty gurney that rests slanted in the hall. I lean on the corner and hit my fist into the layer of dust, and cough.

It's not fair. I want to tell them. None of them would listen, wouldn't give me the chance. They'd shoot first, seal their fate. But this isn't right. Sacrificing people for the sake of exploitation. Even their protectors.

The atmosphere changes somehow. I hear frantic cries, sputtering through the crackle of a radio. I stagger forward, and turn the corner where lights flash sporadically. Ahead of my path an open room blazes, the floor decorated with familiar checkerboard tile - same as the Prison Block - the lights glint and pulse in random patterns behind a metal segregation gate across the room.

"Multiple officers down in sub basement!" The speaker screamed. In the background static buzzes, and the communication cuts off. Gunfire and shrieking blasts across the wave. It's what I expected.

I limp to the gate at the room's entrance, and watch as the soldiers hurry downwards, down, down; marching down steps, filing themselves among white-chiseled corridors of cold stone. My skin prickles under the stiff scrubs I wore:

_Waiting in the mountains._

"Unknown assailant. We need EVAC and paramedics." The rapid assault of the high powered rifles hits its climax, and the squeals of terrified men cut off one after the other; each cry more anguished than the last. "No. God." There's a final screech as the line of the radio goes silent, except for the low thrumming vibrating through.

I wonder if they can hear that.

"Backup! We need help!" The sound is lessened, and the voice comes through; successive weapon fire remains constant but distant from the speaker, to no effect. "Basement laboratory. Some… some THING…" More sobs and pained cries peel through.

"Copy that. Incoming." The above level soldier offered. His boots clump on the hollow staircase as he flitters out of sight beyond the mesh gate.

"We're coming. Hold on." The last of their lights wink out beyond the gate, and darkness reasserts itself.

I remain where I've crouched, one arm wrapped over my face. I'm biting into the filthy sleeve tasting salt and blood, the pressure aggravates my bruised face but I don't notice, don't care. I should've warned them. I did nothing. There was nothing I could do. They'll kill me. _I don't want to die..._.

My leg drags on the smooth floor. I cross to the gate where the soldiers disappeared from and try the door, and am unsurprised that it's locked. Before moving straight to checking the door beside the elevator, I hobble over to the corpse on the floor. The camera did not do his mistreatment justice. His waist is a ragged deep wound, and his organs poke out through torn, leathery flesh. This person, patient, seems familiar to me, though I don't recall who he might've been. He wears part of a decayed surgeons mask, and some sort of monocle apparatus fitted over one eye; tubing was wrapped around one arm, but I couldn't discern its function. The tubing was shredded and red globs leaked from the compromised ends.

I slowly stood up and backed away from the figure. Something about the corpse's presence, and the tormented, terrifying look on his face; there was something morbid and depraved in the cadavers warped expression. I must've known him from somewhere, before whatever the Engine did to him, I know for certain. I know as much that he needed to die.

The doors to either side of the elevator are shut, and the lift itself refuses to respond when I hit the switch.

I return to the dark corridor, and find a light burning down the next corridor on my left side. I'm cautious and tread gently, even if I know the soldiers will be gone for a long time; if they survive, which I doubt.

Someone lugged filing cabinets into the corridor, and left one pinned to the gate in one wall. But the door ahead had been torn out of its frame and lay near the doorway, inviting weary survivors like myself. I sniffled at the blood coating my nose, and cough. The pain seeps through my skin, but I'm able to walk. I'll walk out of this place, and move far away from Colorado.

The boards creek under my heel as I apply the slightest of weight, and for a fleeting moment I freeze. I try the door handle before me, on reflex, even as I'm moving towards the path marked for me. Frequently I pause and listen at the minute sounds that remain in the soldiers abandonment; I don't fully trust that all of them are gone, and I remain leery of patients that might have survived. The stillness in the halls is unnerving; I can almost hear my heart pounding in my chest, pressing blood through my ears. It drowns out the humming, the dull tingling in my skin that isn't bruised or battered.

From the next corridor, soft hues of orange drift in from the window. I pause at the window to stare out at the faint light soaking into trees and the landscape outside. I move across the gurney jammed in the hall, and gaze out the next window facing the grounds of the asylum. It looked peaceful out there, worlds away. What I need to do is reach it, then this will all be over.

My fist thumped dully on the thick glass. I want to believe that it would be that simple.

A door awaited at my back. I open it slowly and lean on it. I'm not ready to accept that I may be the last survivor; that everyone else was murdered, or shot. The silence was almost unnerving, like I was the last person alive in the world. That might not be far from the truth.

The path altered drastically. I realize this when I step under a halo of lamp burning through the fringes of the next corridors gloom, at my side; the entryway was different upon glance. The corroded and broken wall ended at a trim of brick gutting out from the walls side, and the rough wood floor ended at... plush carpet, new and undisturbed by rot and insects. I move closer to the edges of a metal gate mounted in the brick edging, and stare into a hall completely alien to the world of the asylum that I had grown accustomed to.

I remembered this place.

The carpet and drywall holds a fresh scent, like newly constructed offices, but the residual aroma of old wood remains present, buried under a shell of lies. Fresh curtains hung at the windows, and wild sunlight splashed across the clean, painted walls. The carpet is lush and delightful on my butchered feet after miles of dirt, rock, and splintered floorboards, the euphoria is so painful, I nearly collapse; instead, I grapple with the nearest curtain and tear the fabric with a sharp rip. I laugh, despite it all, despite terror, insanity, and my insurmountable grief. I laugh and press my agonized face into the stiff fibers, and revel in the sensation of clean. My eyes gaze out the window and onto a landscape washed in amber and gold, trees sway on a placid breeze, birds flutter by. The world hasn't gone anywhere, it's just been waiting for me to emerge.

I'm getting out of here and nothing can stop me.

* * *

**Red Barrels reserves the rights to its characters and content. **

**Who's stoked about the next game though?**


	25. Chapter 25

**Thank you for the support, reviews, and your time. And have a safe and pleasant summer.**

* * *

**Murkoff Psychiatrics**

Honey soaked sunbeams weaved their way through tempered glass, and pressed their radiant influence into whatever stone or fiber they touched. The light chased away the murk and gloom, it brought focus and executed its order unto a world that had been swamped by chaos for a brief but violent length of time. Even the long dark corridors I had left behind were now empty and silent, the drafts faltered between a fragile chill or the overbearing wraith of the light. The only indication of what I had left was the dilapidated hall I exited, and the soggy corpses that lay in my wake.

I couldn't bring myself to move immediately. I had to stop and watch the mist clogged branches winding beneath the glowing orb, and think. I am… I can feel it. I am going home.

Carefully, I edged my knee off the fallen bookcase and entrusted a small amount of weight to my heel. I did catch myself glancing over my shoulder every other step or two, expecting something or some silhouette to materialize at the far end of the hall, watching and waiting for me to witness it. But I reassured myself that shadows couldn't thrive in the light, it wouldn't risk its own doom.

The corpses fallen in the hall were fresh. I was strafing around the thick puddles, but it's hard to do this when I'm accustomed to dragging my leg rather than fighting to maneuver it where I need to go. One body is dressed in staff's casual wear, but the other guy bears the security uniform. I don't hurry off, but stop and stare at them from my distance. Something about their wounds unnerve me, they're too clean, and in a way that is frightening.

My arms slowly slip to my sides. "Murk… tactical." It's been so long since I've heard my own voice, I flinch when I speak.

"_Murkoff has it under control._"

I move my eyes to the walls around the bodies, and take in their pristine surface, even after the hell the asylum has undergone. I back away, my leg trailing after. I pivot and start moving, faster.

It doesn't matter who you are, or what you've done. Patient, doctor, executive— none of that makes a lick of difference to the cleanup crew. I know they're following orders, I know they'd shoot me dead if I came at them with my arms raised. They don't understand the things we've been trying to warn them about, are chasing us.

Let them find out the hard way. Then they can decide if this is a good enough mission or not.

The mark of Murk Tactical is left on the walls. I pass through a gate left open in the corridor, and find the scar of bullet holes that convert the plaster inside to dust. My hand brushes over the wounds as I hobble, and I do pause to pick at the deeper pockmarks. The walls have a steady tempo restrained inside, as if the shadows had retreated all the way beneath the foundations of the facility and were building their forces into some sort of cataclysm.

Ahead of me the hall is blocked by all manner of furniture, bookcase, and cabinets; to my shoulder the door is latched tightly by large metal braces bolted into the frame. I take the door to the opposite wall to be unlocked, and lean inside.

One of the lounges, virtually untouched in the ensuing madness. Windows on the far side of the room shimmer with the oncoming force of a fall dawn, the natural light clashes with the artificial bulbs that gleam from the ceiling. I press my hand over the back of the long loveseat I approach, and tighten my grip on the course wool fabric. There were other additions to make the room homier, warm – a coffee table, some book cases loaded with random novels and encyclopedias, and a television high above a fireplace, on the wall adjacent to me.

The screen flashed with random splotches of static and chatter, its song crooned to me. I pressed the side of my face into the crook of my arm as I hurried by. No more, I can't bear any more of that sickness.

I found the door to the next hall I had to bypass, open. I paused in the threshold looking first to the door buckled with metal braces before me, then turned to gaze down the clear side of the corridor. There's plenty of light to see by, I don't need the camera out but I may need it on me. All these doors left open were inviting, but I didn't trust them. I'm not certain this section was clear, or if the soldiers bypassed me. If they come back now, in a panic—

I shouldn't be thinking like that.

Each time I exceed the pressure on my leg, a little warm trickle slips down the side of my ankle. Not a lot, but the small detail distracts me a bit from the pain, or I'm beginning to get accustomed to it. I will never admit any good came from my temporary confinement, no matter what happens.

I weave around the uprooted furniture using the bookcase and filing cabinets interchanging with the walls as I walk. Scattered pages stick to my leg and drag, they're possibly important documents, right now they're a nuisance. I'm not paying attention where I set my hand, and stumble through an open portal that I missed. It's worse that the office is enveloped in a dark cloud, and I crash into the table as I fumble about blindly in the suffocating sea.

My arms drag off the table, nails grinding through the polished wood before I flop to the floor and kick myself back up under the table. I huddle there with the camera tucked into my lap, my leg on fire, but I keep my eyes fixed on the door. I thought someone called my name. I'm hearing things. But someone might've heard that in the dead silence that loitered in the halls.

Absolutely nothing happens. I sit under the table waiting for something, someone to crash into the room demanding… something, claiming to smell me, burn the room down, but this never happens. I imagine dozens of scenarios, and devise the manner in which I will flee to nowhere particular. Eventually, my tight wheezes relax, and some of the shakiness seeps off my cold skin.

Rather crawl out the other side of the table, I push myself back with my good leg and stand behind the table. Just in case.

My camera visor reveals that it's some sort of conference room, abandoned by ambition. The wheelie chairs are strewn out around the table and across the floor, the walls are packed with bookcases loaded with books and boxes, and a large dry erase board side near the side of the table where I fell. A big box of files sits on the edge of the scorched table – in fact files are everywhere – numerous pages, pieces of ripped paper. I catch the distinct scent of char, and stare at the fresh pile of ash dusting the table. Intermixed with the cinder are pieces of paper that had resisted flames, the night visual of the camera reveals the rivets where their stories were punctured out of existence.

One folder lies beside the ash, its thick spine refused to perish. I slip off the paperclips along the packets side and open it up. I pick up a few pages and go over to the light of the doorway, flip through them, then return for more. I keep the camera out and work to catch clear images of what was contained in the documents. I paused as I collapsed once more in the breath of light and began reading through the content. There were too many pages to go through in a single setting, but the header on the pages front demanded my attention. Later… I can check them with the camera.

"_TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION FOR PATIENTS: _

_14306-8 _

_14279-1 _

_14868-1_

_FROM: _

_MURKOFF PSYCHIATRIC SYSTEMS _

_Mount Massive_

_TO: _

_MURKOFF ARD _

_Zeichner Facility_

_CAUTION: Level TRIPLE BLACK security protocols, including chemical restrain, physical restraint, and separate adaptive hyperbaric chambers are to be used at all time in transit. Chemical stimulation is highly recommended for all personnel within 500 meters of the patients. Attempts at communication should be assumed to be hallucinations and disregarded. Facial disfigurement should not be taken as a sign of lost acuity; they are physically blind but not unseeing._

_NOTE: Security clearances for PROJECT WALRIDER will not apply to information regarding Patients 14306-8, 14279-1, and 14868-1. New security clearances will be issued and appropriate protocol assigned._"

I pulled my hand from the papers, and massaged the knuckles latched over the camera. No-no… they're serious. But are they sane? I check the date on one of the earlier pages— Oh god. It's already happened.

I pull my good leg up and lean on the knee, and turn my head to stare down the hall. Under the insufferable light, the walls and floor is tinged with dark blotches, old blood. Project Walrider is on file, a deemed and acceptable _partial success_. I didn't understand the project, I don't know what they thought they could make; now, they thought they made something else? Something possibly worse.

I wipe the moisture from my eyes and go back at the files, trying again for those clear images, recording a few twice. When I'm done, I throw the files back into the dark abyss of the room and struggle back up onto my feet.

Fuckin' lunatics. Didn't learn the first time, didn't learn a damn thing! They weren't here! Oh… holy shit, what am I- ? Caught me. I tried to warn someone. The information I leaked. All over again. Another mass grave filled with corpses and shadows. How does it end? When the last man standing, finally falls. I remember how tall those shadows run.

I slump on the wall, broken by the fatigue of my revelation. The door handle swivels loose in my hand and I enter into an small office; a bookcase, window, a computer and desk stand in the far corner. The drawer of the desk is open, files piled on top. I go through them, pages sloshing out to the floor at my toes. I lose my patience and drag the whole drawer out, and wince when it crashes to the floor. I look up into the vacant cuvee of the drawer and feel around, my leg is strained too much and I'm forced further down on my good knee with too much weight. I snap up a piece of paper and haul out. It's a torn sticky note with a code on it.

The sticky note goes tacked onto the monitor and I take a seat at the computer, I pull the keyboard up closer to me. I set my camera aside, not too far out of reach, and go to work. The code works on the computer, and the desktop opens up. Murkoff's dome should still be up, but no one's watching this time. I check the time in the corner of the screen as the private browser loads.

A sound trickles in from the open door. I lunge to my feet and scramble to the door, first checking the hall – no movement, nothing alive – I gently close the door and hustle back to the computer. I'm not comfortable the way I'm sitting, but I don't plan to stay here long.

Log into Mutemail, my account expires in two days. What do I say? More importantly, who do I contact? Two days, I have two days. I glance at my leg, and begin typing. It's a short notice but it's to the point. I take the camera and rewind it back and check the names on the file, the _Three Bind Dreamers_. I mention nothing of who I am or what I'm involved with.

The email is sent. I give the transaction a few seconds to process. In the meantime, I lug the tower out from under the desk and heave it high above my head. I pause a second, as wires dangle in my face and pull, then drive the powerhouse hardware against the floor. The casing cracks wide and sputters, its inner components heave a mournful sigh as the fans wind down.

This feels vaguely reminiscent of something dark and almost forgotten, hovering in the void spots of my mind.

I lean on the desk, and tear my eyes off the horrible sight of the scattered computer. Someone, anyone, could've heard that, but I won't move. I dig my fingers into the edge of the table, struggling to gain control over the little convulsions in my chest. I can leave now. I'm not done, but I am excused.

I take my camera and leave the room. I have no plans to ever return there.

The door to my side is closed, and I leave it that way. "_I'm getting out of here, and nothing can stop me_." I keep repeating this in my head, as I bypass a pattern of bare bloodstained feet prints. For a moment I revisit the thick puddles or congealing blood and shudder. They were trying to do the same thing someplace else. This place was done, I am done here.

Ahead I can see doors open and light invading the stubborn gloom. An open bathroom is bypassed, as is the bolted door parallel to it; the metal braces seemed more effective a measure than the hastily raised plywood barricades. Or bookcases.

The intersecting hall I step into is open, and brightly lit to my left. I pause and listen, uncertain, but I decide it's the walls around me rumbling some... ferocity. I heave through the gate before me and nearly collapse. I know exactly where I am. I am looking right at the exit, and like all the doors I'd been passing on my way here, the doors out of this nightmare factory are wide open.

Despite the distortions of the glass, I was nearly blinded by the harsh light crashing through the aping portal way down there, inviting. The outside world blazed ruthless, a glorious yellow unlike any I'd witness years ago in my days; bright as polished gold, but more valuable than the whole world. I folded to my knees and gaped down into the lobby of the Administrative Block.

The _Administrative Block_**. **Evact, escape, and freedom.

I didn't care that it was covered in dead bodies, or that I was probably the last survivor in this whole goddamn place, or that this nightmare was far from over. One passage was done, I could take it one step at a time. I'll give them a little taste of humility.

My empty proclamation didn't stop the tears from falling. I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, and struggled in vain to swipe away the insects humming around my head. My senses were probably numb, the corpse didn't smell that bad. I smelled worse. Looked like someone turned his pockets out, but didn't find much. They left his wallet marinating in the large syrupy pool surrounding his body.

Little papers were littered around the body. I picked up the researchers keys and tucked them into one of the pouches, and looked through the notes. Most were blank, a mark on one, and deep pen scratches on others; they were tinged with blood, but the marks were like fingerprints. The notes I could read had phrases like 'static' or 'sound in the machine,' and a picture marked so deep with pen it bled through. It looked like a hard scribble of a box with a face scratched in; not really a face it sort of looked like a… I don't know what it looked like. The name escapes me.

I leave the opened papers where they fall on the blood, and use the table a few feet away to leverage myself to my feet.

Out is what I need to do. I have to get out, find a way to civilization. My eyes flick to the tempered glass as I limp and drag my leg, I check the gate across from my stance and take into account it's been bolted tight. I began a theory about the locked gates and doors, that had the anchored plates latched deep into the frames. It meant everyone inside was neutralized, and the locks guaranteed that the one in a millionth chance someone was missed in the sweep – like me –that they were as good as dead. Locked away and forgotten.

I gave the elevator to my left a wide berth; if it worked I had no plans to use it. The floor was marked by bloody shoe prints, of different sizes and traveling in different directions. My attention was fleeting as my eyes roamed, I moved beyond the elevator and to where the landing descended onto the steps that dropped to the ground floor. This was the only way down that I knew. I clung to the rail as I began down, one at a time. I could do this.

_I'm going to leave this place, through those front doors._

It was easier than I anticipated, and I could even manage two steps if I felt steady. But it was the longest descent that I'd ever taken anywhere, a good descent, a little invigorating. I was going; I was getting out of here.

The Administrative Block looked just like it did when I first came through here. Not quite, but it did resemble the former arrogance that Murkoff had imbued it with when – as the rumors went – took over after the original Mount Massive closed. The air was stuffy with rot, and a low coil of vapor hung throughout the lower floor. Under the sparkling chandelier that hung from above, all of the sins the company had committed were now back to haunt them, and slathered every wall and surface with evidence of the slaughter.

I glance from the portraits hung on the decorative wide pillars, and look to the pitiful sight of a tipped over wheelchair beside a large blood smear. If I listen, I can hear water gushing from somewhere. I see the same evidence of the tactical team that came through here, by the doors at the opposing halls across to my left and right, the gates bolted tight. I spin all the way around and stare at the elevator shaft.

And I don't know why. I move towards it, slowly, as if it is alive and plotting, tempting me closer. It does nothing but wait for me, and seclude its secrets. I stand before it, and pause. There's… nothing here, it's an open elevator with the carriage who knows where, but… I remember it. Distorted shapes twisting, bleeding off the walls around me. I remember what it was, and walking up to these metal gates with—

I physically recoil, and raise a hand to my head. God damn you, Jeremy. I hope you suffered, and I hope whatever abomination that killed you enjoyed it.

My fists smashes into the metal gate, igniting a dry clatter that cuts across the warm walls of the plaster around me, and the ornate fixtures, and all the sporty trimmings that skyrocketing profits could afford. I hit my fist again, and listen to the brittle cackles that traverse down the cold gullet – down, down, down – into the labs, the lies, and the nightmares cradle.

I raise my fist again, ignoring the splinting pain in my leg, but this time I know I've heard a sound. I hesitate, and push back from the solid lattice of the grungy steel and stare across the expanse of the lobby. I can't be sure, but it sounded like a voice. Strained, in pain. Someone left alive after the tactical cops came through?

I pull myself away from the elevator and move between the tall wall structures, and into the dimmed section of the lobby. Most of it has been left intact, the windows along the lower floor are in one piece, and the glimmer of distorted light comes through from the active computers. Broken glass is scattered across the floor on one side to my left, the shards sparkling under the presenting dawn are most notable, and in a way beautiful. The desk island for security remains waiting, with one corpse to manage incoming traffic. The benches and chairs left out are scattered around and some have tipped over.

I stand behind the polished granite surface of the desk. No more than five yards across from me is the exit, and who of all people would be guarding it?

"Mr. Park. How the fuck are you still alive?" Jeremy Blaire. He's reclined on the doors edge, a hand pressed to his gut. He winces on a breath and kind of adjusts his rumpled shape.

I watch him without a mediated expression, and blink.

"Let's… make a deal," he gasped, and gathered some resolve. "You help me, I'll help you."

Very slowly I move out from behind the countertop and approach. I try and hide my limp, but I can't pretend my shape is stable. I keep on mind that Jeremy is either not hurt, or he's in better condition than I am. I move closer, scrutinizing him intently. My eyes only duck from his gaze to sweep over spots of blood, leading to where Jeremy has fallen. I take up my camera and check with the zoom, and see clearly the thick blemishes soaked into his $300 hand tailored clashing white dress shirt.

I'm still not going near him.

The meager slice of a grin Jeremy had managed when he saw me, vanished completely. "God, I'm stuck like a pig."

I keep the edge of a sofa corner between him and me. He does look hurt. I compare the dark colors under his hand, to the same wild patterns that surround me, and the bodies they accompany. Flies hum on the air, poking at the gelatinous balloons of organs expelled across the sandy tile. Here and there are footprints crisscrossing the lobby, most from people trying to get out, I know. Was Jeremy still killing the ones that tried to walk? I know what he's capable of.

"Help me up," Jeremy beseeched. "Please."

The doors are wide open, and Jeremy is stretched across them by a forth. He's not directly in my path. I'm not eluded that he's incapacitated.

"_Jeremy Blaire. My supervisor's supervisor, a man who'd see me skinned, salted, and raped for a promotion and a few martinis. Injured. Dying if he's not already dead. I'm trying to feel sorry for him. Really, I am._

_But there's no way in hell he's stopping me from getting out of this godforsaken place. I'm coming home, Lisa._"

The glass came from the wall of the upper floor. I walked over to the glistening shards and selected one that looked strong, and sharp, then returned to Jeremy. He stared up at me like a crippled vulture, something with venom and the resolute stubbornness that was willing to fight death tooth and nail. I wanted to imagine him afraid of something after all this; mortal and human, wholly fearing the insurmountable suffering and grief that had been cultivated into the walls that kept us confined.

"You deserve this," I say. Jeremy blinks at me. "Whether you live or die, you deserve this." I pause to catch my breath. I hold the shard of glass in front of me, as if it were the camera and it was devouring Jeremy's very soul. My voice is parched and squeaks as I continue. "Dying in the sunlight, is too good for you."

Jeremy sort of laughs a bit, and that grin returns. "What do you plan to do, Park?" It takes him a little longer to collect his words. And I wait. "You can't… kill me."

My arms won't stop shaking. "No." There is absolutely no change in Jeremy's expression. "You're going to sit there, and I'll leave." I stand where I am a bit longer. No further words escape Jeremy. I swallow at my tongue, and lower the glass piece as I begin toward the door with as much space between Jeremy and I that can be taken.

Jeremy watches my movement with an intense hatred. I reach out to the doorframe to steady myself—

My nerves ignite with cold fire twisting into every crevice in my bones, and burning off as a riving smolder. It takes a half a second for me to snatch up the image of Jeremy sliding his shoe out, and kicking my compromised leg. My hands jerk involuntarily at my sides, and I'm falling. What keeps me from crashing to my backside is Jeremy, who has crawled up my front by grabbing at handful of my scrubs. Somewhere in all this I've lost the glass shard, and instead snag his shoulder as he raises a flash of—

Knife.

"Fucking DIE already!" Jeremy drives the blade into me. I tumble backwards, forgetting the agony of my damaged wound in favor of the spreading warmth in my shirt.

"_Oh god, I've been stabbed. God, oh god, I'm fuckin dying…._"

The haze clears from my head by a margin, and all that I detect is the twisting burn in my abdomen. I tilt over to see what's happened, my brain craves automatic assessment of the damage, but my leg collapses under me, and I follow it. A sudden weight constricts my muscles and I keep going down through the floor, unable to break the plunge with my arms, I'm unable to rouse my whirling senses. I drop onto the camera lodged in the belt pack and manage, somehow, to kick away from Jeremy as he shambles forward. I'm almost too astonished by his lurching movements to get away. He looks pathetic.

But he carries that little blade in his blood soaked hands, and I can see in his gray eyes the utter desperation. Jeremy Blaire believes he cannot die until I die first. That was the pact he made with the demons, that is why he hated me so much.

My retreat is canceled instantly when I crash back into a solid and hard surface. A burst of flies scatter in a thick cloud and disperse altogether under the lethal, single minded approach of Jeremy.

"No one can know," he shrieked. Jeremy carried the weapon low beside him, like the metal instrument was impossibly heavy, and the exertion alone to hold it ate up the last of his strength.

I grope around at my side for something to hold, but I'm not reaching and not gripping anything. My eyes can't leave Jeremy's utterly twisted face. Insane. I mistook that look for insanity, but it was darker, more sinister that the bliss of lunacy. This man was contaminated by the infection, and found no change in his condition. He had one mission to fulfill, and he would see the deed done.

"No… one…" Jeremy pitched forward and grabbed my collar. The metal edge of the knife glint in his fist, as he raised it beside his face.

My reaction was spontaneous, instinctive. I kicked a foot out and caught the crook of his arm, before the weapon could plunge down. I bite the edge of my tongue in the struggle, my hands smacking at his chest as I flail; I think I'm trying to hit that spot in his gut, but there's too much swinging and batting - I'm spiraling in the fumes of old copper and sedentary meat - all of it a blur of black and red. I'm fighting to kick up at Jeremy, but my stomach is torn open and fresh warm blood spills down my middle.

_DIE._

Jeremy missed his target with the blade, but the cold edge of the hilt cracks into my broken face. I drop flat on my back with little resistance left, but for my arm still mindlessly clawing at the floor for something to hold. Death. This is death. I'm... it happens right here. Dying. I was so close, but He was in my way. I should've known – no matter how far I run, no matter where I hide, or the sort of small intervention god watching my every step. Jeremy would always be there, lurking somewhere, waiting for me to fuck up.

_Just fucking die_.

Jeremy takes a step back and falters. I can't see through the heavy fog of natural light blazing across Jeremy's dark, rumpled suit. My only certainty is he won't make it quick.

A blood curdling screech tears from my intended murderer. My eyes snap open to… oh god. The flies...

Not flies. A typhoon of crashing, grinding, rumbling bludgeons my cowering mind. I can't, it's too much. Swallowing up and churning what of me is left, unwilling and incapable of absorbing this fresh trauma. Black mist engulfs the entirety of the room; ceiling, walls, the floor, everything is devoured in the hailstorm of… scratching dust. I pull an arm over my mouth, but watch with a meager touch of satisfaction as Jeremy is lifted up, and pitched away. I wince at the sounds, as a shape materializes beneath Jeremy's ragdolling legs.

"What the fu…." Jeremy choked, an instant before he's launched off the… shade. The Walrider. It continues to drive at him, up and up, down, and upward. Jeremy continues squealing, throttled this way and that - the sounds spilling from Jeremy are inhuman, primal, and somehow fitting. "Oh, God, oh Christ in Heaven," he wailed, through the den of murder and streams of blood. "How did it get out…"

I want to crawl away. Hide someplace deep and dark where even shadows don't dare lurk. But if I move, Jeremy will have his death wish.

I go limp and gape, my ears an audience alone to Jeremy's agonized howls. A vaguely human shape cuts into, and tears out of my former antagonist. I tighten my eyes shut and crumple under the hammering buzz; the friction of the dust twister scraping across my brow. It's not enough to drown out the sounds of bones snapping, meat pulverized, muscle shredding; Jeremy pinwheels skyward as the black fog burrows into his gut and drags him up by the mid-section. The last sound Jeremy managed was this garbled sob, then, his body splint in two. The droplets scatter over my thinly covered arms, before I actually see his skin unravel off his skeleton in thick gleaming ribbons.

And it's over. The black haze dissipates as if it never was, and a shower of hot liquid geysers across the open air. I wince down, drawing an arm against the thicker globs of red that dress me up and down. Jeremy's lower half plops onto the floor a yard from me and deflates, guts roll out of his trousers, and his spinal cord – exposed from the top of his belt – droops like a shriveled flower stem.

I chance rolling over and work to ease myself upright. My breath is shallow, I can't believe I'm still here, in one piece. My body shudders. I expect it to reappear, shriek and throttle my innards into an unrecognizable mush. But there's no sign of the mist, the lobby has gone silent—no rattling, no screaming, no static. Blissful silence restores itself. I survived. I'm still alive.

Pain remains. It brings back cohesion, and my resolve. I can't stay here. I have to get out. Now. Nothing can stop it. Nothing.

I pull my quivering arm down to my chest and hold a hand to the blood spot I know is mine. I am coated in Jeremy, but the blood is cooling fast. Christ, I should be horrified… I don't know what I feel. Clear droplets roll from my eyelids as I take in the entire room, I can taste the blood on my tongue. I'm saturated in death.

A fragrant breeze of rains and earth tickles my nose, and I flinch under it. My good leg pushes at the ground, and I'm struggling back up. The gnawing pain in my leg dissipates with each move I make, each inch I gain. _Survive. Sunlight. Survive._ echoes in my head. "_I will. I promise I will."_ I stagger when I reach my feet and take a step. It was so close, everything I hoped for is right in front of me. I was going to walk out of this place. _Through those front doors_.

It was in an article I read somewhere that in extreme cases, of people overcoming and surviving improbable conditions, the moment rescue crews arrive to save them, the fortunate survivors can suffer an adrenalin failure and die anyway. After all that. The moment relief arrives, they're so happy they just die.

I lean on the doorway and reach out towards the golden rays of light. I want to grip the warmth and hold it to my wounds, make them mend. My hand trembles, but that doesn't bother me as much as it should. How would you know if you were going to drop dead? Do you realize it, or does it happen and you're dead? I don't plan on dying here, but I'm scared and curious. I made it. But I have a long walk ahead.

A sound clatters behind me. I edge past the threshold and glance back, moving away, but still trying to place the sound. Metal grinding, and a whirring… the elevator. It works.

Someone survived. Down there in the root of all chaos. Somehow, someone survived, and they're coming back up.

I stumble down the steps and keep going, across the damp sidewalk. Wet leaves stick to my feet and drag as I hurry. I have no idea where I'm going, I think I'm heading to the gate. My hands latch onto the descending rail of the steps and as I crawl down, eyes snapping from one armored jeep to the other. Military hummers, from the tactical soldiers roaming. I can't mess with those vehicles. They're coming.

Once I leave the shelter of the buildings eave, the vibrant intensity of the sun burrows into my eyes. I blink against it, but can't raise my arm to shield my face. The landscape, middle lawn and its unkempt shrubs and trees, all harbor a frail amber haze. I bypass the center pathway and head to the company parking lot, on the far side of the courtyard. No cars are visible through the watery cloth of light, none that I can see through the tall gate. A chain and lock are shackled around the meeting gates, I glimpse it as I hurry on. Even uninjured and desperate I couldn't risk the climb; there are more vehicles ahead. I smell the fumes, the swarm of earthy forest, of life thriving out there beyond the gates. There's freedom, and there is survival beyond.

I tighten my arm across my abdomen as I cast my eyes back to the yawning dark portal of the door. Nothing. Time, I still have time. My only option is to hike out of here, on the rocky dirt path, on a bad leg without shoes, and probably hide all along the way. The gritty asphalt was already chewing into the bloodied flesh of my soles, I'd be down to bone by the time I reached anything that had a semblance to civilization.

My strength gives out briefly, as I hobble between another pair of massive hummers. They must've blasted through the gate, one door was crumpled under an armored vehicle; the other, that remained lodged against the brick wall, shuddered as I pressed my weight into it. Out of blind desperation I began going through my pockets, for something that I could use. The belt had nothing to yield, aside from the blunt pocket knife and a few worthless batteries, and a set of keys. I undid the belt—

But I hesitate, and looked at the keys. There were only three, one was for a vehicle and it had a chip embedded. But what vehicle did it go to? Aside from a few executives, all staff were shuttled to Mount Massive's facility. These keys didn't look freshly cut, they weren't a new model.

As I began to limp away from the gate, I look up. In the creamy haze, the watchman's tower surfaced forth, and – I'm seeing right – there is another vehicle parked off to the side. I hurry, despite the protests of the tear in my gut, and struggle across the rough choppy rock of the road. I climb onto the cement divider that separates the two lanes, and put some of my weight on the guard bars as I move closer to the vehicle. A jeep.

It's a civilian vehicle, I can hotwire it. I know in theory how to do this, but I've never actually done it. I'll do that.

I stop as I pull on the doors handle. It's locked. I have keys, they jingle as I separate them from the belt. This would be beyond rational, that through the entire asylum I would happen to stumble across a set of keys belonging to the only person that had a car.

The second key fit in the door, and the lock clicked.

Lisa. God, I'm not too linear, I'm just linear enough. I rub at my eyes with a clean spot on my collar, and haul the door open. I toss the belt onto the passenger seat, and stuff the car key into the ignition, and… I almost hesitate, almost; before I fortify my decision and climb into someone else's property, someone else's lifestyle. There's nothing immediately personal upon first glance of the vehicle's interior, and from where I stand, it looks to be in good shape. I can tell it's not a new model, but it's been well taken care of. The researcher is dead, he'll never leave this place, never know his life ended so the truth of what happened could escape.

A squirming blur flashes in the edge of my eye as I take my seat behind the steering wheel. I pull the door shut automatically, and twist the key in the ignition. The lights in the dashboard illuminate, bright and crisp like cities burning out on a distant horizon. When I look up, I realize that what I am seeing is not a shadow. Maybe the monster of all shadows. That off and familiar taste coats the back of my throat, as I twist in place fumbling with the pocket belt on the seat beside me. It's worse when I look back, and growing. Swarming.

While I'm zooming in, closer, and closer, my finger flicks the night feed on impulse. God, I wish I hadn't done that.

The mist coils about itself, ravenous and agitated, and at its center a dark shape lumbers through the apex of the hailstorm unperturbed. A vaguely human shape. It's out. Oh god, it's out! It's gotten out!

And it's looking directly at me.

A chill rolls down my spine, every nerve in my skin prickles with charge. Shit. Shit! I toss the camera aside and reach for the stick shift on the steering— stick shift is mounted on the floor by my hip. I try and shift gears, but the damn thing won't budge! My attempt to curse the situation ends in pitiful whines, begging. Nothing is viewable in the former landscape, there is only a pit of black fog writhing, crashing and clambering over itself towards me.

_Even the soldiers._

The stick is stuck, and I grieve my leg as I hammer my foot onto the gas pedal. At my assault the jeep bellows, engine roaring, but its growl cannot compete with the rolling howl of the static… the grating metal colliding and pounding at the metal hull of the military hummers that are swallowed up in the cloud. My foot slips off the gas and hits the brake, the shift budges.

_With their guns_.

At this point the sounds I'm making are little more than animal, gibberish. I shove my foot onto the brake, the shift moves all the way to reverse. I rock backwards several feet, the tires screech and gray vapor blossoms around the jeep. My chest smashes into the steering when I rebound from the cushioned seat, pain burns in my gut but my hand is still working and, blearily, I look up as the all-consuming wave of darkness surges through the watchman's tower. Leaves whip and scatter under the onslaught, tree branches snaps over the scathed red hood of the jeep. I'm so tired of the red, so much red in various shades, shapes. Spreading. Pooling over stark white - arm twitching last spasms...

_Couldn't steal it all away_.

I have the steering wheel spinning as far as it will go, until it threatens to crack under my grip. I hit the gas and snap my head up, judging the distance of the jeeps length to the inner wall. One shot, I have one shot at this. I taste blood, I know I'm not seeing straight, but either I'll die trying or— no alternatives. I am committed. My survival lays beyond those gates.

_I am free_.

For a moment nothing happens. The jeep thunders as the gas feeds, it's almost enough to obliterate the sound of the boiling nightmare grating at the nose of the vehicle. I wedge my arms among the gaps in the steering wheel and lean hard into the cold glass of the door. "_Please. Move, dammit. Move!_" Heat engulfs my chest and vibrations work through my bones; gnawing through splintered nerves. Blood snorts from my nose as I give a final wrench at the steering wheels limit.

_Forget_.

With a final bark of the engine, the vehicles lurches sideways and traction burns under the wheels. The little jeep does a complete one-eighty, nearly throwing me out of the drivers seat. I buck hard on the steering wheel, grinding it in the direction I craved - maintain my heading, even as the icy shroud enveloped the jeep, and ebbed on my senses. The scraping shrill plunges into my thoughts, obscuring objectives and aspiration like tearing my wings free when I'm two inches short of the suns blazing light. The gates stand in the path, locked, but not impervious. My arms brace over the steering wheel, and with a final kick to the gas the jeep blasts forward.

I narrowly peer across the fringes of the black void swallowing up the road around me, along with the jeep; the metallic burn shrieks through my blurred awareness. The air in my throat turns icy, and I gag on the tepid swill of copper bubbling forth. Blood rushes between my teeth and nostrils; my lips ramble words with no meaning, no substance or idea. The decisive gunfire of doomed men crackled forth with vivid clarity, and amplifies the impact of the gate as it erupts outward, off the jeep's grill. In the brief instant I recall absolutely nothing, before my world shattered into snow and ash.

.

.

.

.

"_I̧̜̤̗̲̼̪̪͙ͤ̀'̷̻̠̀͘m̨̆ͨ̎̌̏̓́͢҉͕͓ ͉͖̤̞̻̰̙ͤ̆̆̏̇̏ͅs̤̝̳͍̈́̈͡ō̵̫̺̤̜̭̆r͌͊ͦ̊͂ͮͬ҉̶̲̰͔̫̯̱͍͢ͅr̴̨̛̝̭̤ͪy͔̖̻̦͓̖̖̔͠.̴̭̓̓ͣ̓͑̇̄͌͗͡_

"


End file.
